


The Inheritance of Eden

by ImprobableDreams900



Series: Eden!verse [6]
Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Action/Adventure, And when I say slow burn I mean slooooooow buuuuuuurn, Angel Crowley, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Asexual Relationship, BAMF Aziraphale, Backstory, Domestic, Eden - Freeform, Flashbacks, Fluff, Heaven, Hell, Human Aziraphale (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Midfarthing, Mild Language, Possession, Serpent Crowley, Slow Burn Romance, Suicidal Thoughts, Temporary Character Death, Trauma Recovery, Wings, angelic headcanons, magic headcanons, the ineffable plan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-05
Updated: 2017-07-31
Packaged: 2018-11-23 19:00:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 28
Words: 133,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11408583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImprobableDreams900/pseuds/ImprobableDreams900
Summary: Crowley and Aziraphale are reunited at last, but paradise isn’t everything it’s cracked up to be...





	1. The Cake

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, and welcome to The Inheritance of Eden! It’s been a long time coming, but here it is at last. A new chapter will be up every day for the next month or so, followed by an author’s note chapter. Most of the fic is rated T, and I’ll let you know when we reach the chapter with the M-rated scene.
> 
> If you need a refresher on what happened in the preceding fics, wanted to take a gander at the hierarchy of angels, or take the time to admire some fan art, you can see all that and more at the Eden!verse tumblr masterpost: http://improbabledreams900.tumblr.com/post/159960726218/edenverse-masterpost
> 
> This picks up approximately an hour after A Memory of Eden and The End of Eternity end, when an unFallen Crowley arrives in Heaven to find Aziraphale waiting for him.

 

[[link](http://improbabledreams900.tumblr.com/post/162861137548/imagining-of-heavens-library-from-the-inheritance)]

 

Harper had outdone himself.

While still on the phone with the cafe owner, Crowley had asked for the finest cake he was able to provide on short notice, and Harper had not disappointed.

Per Crowley’s request, it was a cream cake, stacked three layers high and interwoven with thick swaths of double cream. Harper assured him there was an additional vein of raspberry cream cheese running through the centre, and the entire thing was encased in another generous layer of double cream. Frilled dollops of cream circled the top along with artistically-drizzled raspberry sauce and a couple of real raspberries, which looked surprisingly fresh considering it was still a little early for them to be in season.

“It looks amazing,” Crowley said honestly, barely able to contain what might have been tears of gratitude. He was still flush with relief and elation from the events of that morning, and though he’d started trembling when he touched back down on Earth, he’d managed to steady himself on his short walk into the village.

“Do you need a box?” Harper asked, proffering a folded sheet of white boxboard.

“Yes, that would be great,” Crowley said, still admiring the cake. It truly was beautiful; Aziraphale was going to love it.

Crowley switched his gaze to Harper, who was beginning to assemble the box. Though Crowley hadn’t seen him since before he’d left for his six-month world tour—really more of an ill-fated quest to shake his grief over Aziraphale’s death—he felt the bizarre urge to hug the cafe owner.

“Are you…taking it far?” Harper asked conversationally, a hint of caution in his voice. He seemed a little uncertain what to make of Crowley’s breathless presence, and his tone indicated he was doing his best to tread lightly.

“Oh, you could say that,” Crowley said enigmatically, leaning an elbow on the counter and grinning at Harper like an idiot, mind returning to Aziraphale. His thoughts had been turning automatically towards the former angel for months now, if not years, but for the first time he felt something other than a crushing emptiness when he did so.

“You said it was for a friend…?” Harper asked a little too offhandedly, folding the sides of the box up.

“It is indeed.” _You’re my—my friend, Zira. You’re my best bloody friend in this whole stupid, sodding, amazing world—_

“Someone you, er, met while abroad?” Harper asked delicately as he finished assembling the box and set about sliding the cake into it.

Crowley opened his mouth to tell him the truth—that Aziraphale wasn’t really gone—but stopped himself short. What was he going to say, exactly? ‘You remember A. Ziraphale; you and he geeked out over books together, but then he slowly lost his memory and died, and I’ve been grieving him for almost an entire year? Well, he’s not dead! I mean, he _is_ dead, but he’s just in Heaven, isn’t that absolutely wonderful? I just visited him there! And, oh, yes, I can do that because I’m an angel now—did you know I used to be a demon before?—but I’m an angel now, which means I can go to Heaven anytime I like. In fact, that’s where I’m headed right now, with this beautiful cake—’

“We’ve known each other a long time,” Crowley settled for. He wanted to tell Harper the truth—he’d been Aziraphale’s friend too, after all—but he thought explaining it all would take quite some time, and he’d promised Aziraphale he’d be back in ten minutes.

“You seem…to be doing well,” Harper commented nonspecifically, folding the paper lid over the box.

“Something—something really great has happened,” Crowley said. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you. I’ll tell you all about it later, but I really need to get going.”

Harper finished packaging the cake and paused, one hand on the top of the box. He gave Crowley a direct look, eyes searching. “You’re sure nothing’s wrong?”

“Nah,” Crowley insisted, starting to tug the box from Harper’s grasp. Harper still looked concerned, so he added, “Really. Everything’s fine. Better than fine, actually. _Fantastic._ ”

This didn’t seem to reassure Harper at all, but Crowley really did need to get going. He _had_ promised Aziraphale he’d be back in ten minutes, and it was a promise he did not intend on breaking. As it was, he was starting to wonder how he’d convinced himself to leave Aziraphale in the first place. He was itching to return as soon as possible, eager to drink in the sight of his friend again.

“All right, then,” Harper said doubtfully, and Crowley succeeded in sliding the boxed cake from his grasp.

“Thanks for being so quick,” Crowley said, hugging the box to his chest and giving the cafe owner a genuine smile; Harper frowned back. “I really appreciate it.”

“It’s no trouble,” Harper began, but Crowley was already turning away, unfurling ethereal wings behind him.

 

~~***~~

 

This time, Crowley took a moment to admire the splendour of Heaven.

Mostly, it was just very bright. There was no visible sun, the light seeming instead to radiate from the very sky itself, shimmering off the silver leaves of the trees and making the perfect, emerald-green grass appear to almost glow with incandescence.

White brick roads crisscrossed gently rolling hills, curving through valleys and following orderly tree lines. There weren’t many buildings, but those Crowley passed seemed to favour one of two approaches: either an unadorned, basic construction made of the same smooth white bricks that paved the road, or a hopelessly extravagant baroque style.

Heaven, like Hell, had given up on border control a long time ago. There were simply too many borders to feasibly guard, and there hadn’t been an organised attempt on either side to gain entry into the other’s realm in millennia, so there wasn’t much point to posting guards either. Instead, certain key places within each realm were heavily guarded and patrols made circuits of the less frequented areas.

So when Crowley got to Heaven, he just strolled right in.

He was holding the cake box tightly, striding quickly in the direction of where he’d last seen Aziraphale. He’d flown most of the way on his initial visit, and though he didn’t remember many concrete details besides the pounding of his heart, he was confident he could find his way again.

Crowley turned his feet in the direction he felt certain Aziraphale was in and began making his way along the white brick road, trying not to feel too much like Dorothy on her way to see the Wizard.

He was so consumed with properly retracing his steps that it took him several minutes to realise he was being followed. Crowley cast a quick glance over his shoulder, peering around his folded wings at where a half-dozen angels appeared to be tailing him. They were a good twenty metres away, but they were definitely following him.

Crowley quickened his step.

The road he was following joined with a broader, equally white boulevard, and Crowley felt his heart drop when he saw several angels standing near the junction. They appeared to be absorbed in their conversation, but at least two of them were wearing swords.

Crowley hugged the cake closer and unfurled his wings slightly, hoping that their colour would win him all the passage he required. He put his head down and kept walking, detouring off the road slightly, shoes rustling in the perfect grass.

He remembered a similar time in Heaven, when he’d hidden his damningly black wings under Aziraphale’s and stared fixedly at the ground, crossing over the same white roads. The memory was vivid in his mind—too vivid—and Crowley swallowed a mounting panic. Adam had healed his wings just earlier that morning, but he could still feel where his feathers had been torn out and the stakes had been driven into the leading edge, forcing his bones apart.

Why had he ever left Aziraphale in the first place? Despite what Adam might say, Crowley wasn’t certain he was welcome here, and he knew that wandering around like this was only likely to draw unwanted attention to himself.

Crowley kept his head down and hurried past the angels standing near the junction as fast as he dared. To his horror, he heard their conversation break off as he passed, and knew they’d noticed him. Crowley kept his eyes trained on the ground and walked faster. He heard them exchange a few words and whispers, and was more than a little unnerved when he cast a quick glance behind himself and saw that they’d fallen in with the other angels following him.

The group of angels following Crowley grew as he kept walking, until he could hear their quiet voices floating towards him. Several had dared to break off from the main group to tail him more closely, but they hadn’t tried to stop him yet and Crowley couldn’t convince his feet to move any faster unless he broke into a sprint.

Luckily, it wasn’t long before Crowley located the baroque triple-bay gate he was looking for. He vaguely remembered passing through it earlier, but the barred silver inner gate had simply swung open when he’d drawn near. Now, however, the inner gate was very closed, and there were swords in the hands of two angels standing in front of it.

“Halt!” one of the guards said loudly as Crowley approached, jerking the tip of his sword at the former demon.

Crowley felt his pace slacken, fighting to keep calm. His grip on the cake box tightened, and he decided assertiveness was his best course of action.

“Let me through,” Crowley said, continuing forward as though he had no intention of stopping; as it was, he wasn’t sure what would happen if the crowd of angels behind him caught up.

“You are not authorised to be here,” the other guard said, spreading her wings slightly. “We cannot let you pass.”

Crowley wanted to continue forward, the silver gate tantalisingly close, but their swords looked sharp and unwavering, so he grudgingly ground to a halt just out of range. “You let me through earlier,” he said in his most sensible, confident tone.

The first guard cleared his throat a little awkwardly, and Crowley realised distractedly that he was embarrassed.

“That was an error,” the guard said, adjusting his grip on his sword. “It will not happen again.”

Crowley looked back and forth between them, trying to decide how best to proceed, fingers tight on the sides of the cake box. The crowd that was following him had caught up and come to a halt a few paces behind him, whispering amongst themselves.

“You all need to leave,” the other guard said loudly, addressing her words as much to Crowley as to the crowd behind him. “You have no business here.”

The crowd buzzed unhappily, and Crowley felt his feathers begin to prickle with unease. He didn’t know what the crowd wanted, he didn’t know how to get through the gate, and he was severely outnumbered and surrounded.

Crowley didn’t have to glance at his watch to know it had been over ten minutes.

“You are going to let me through,” Crowley told the guards, trying to instil as much authority into his voice as possible. He drew himself up to his full height, trying desperately to cloak his fear and panic under a confident exterior.

“No, we are not,” the second guard said, and when Crowley stepped forward anyway, she moved to block his passage. Over her shoulder, Crowley could see the silver gate and, beyond it, a swirling sea of colour and light. He knew Aziraphale was in there somewhere, tucked away in his personal heaven, and the thought that this might be the closest he ever got again sent a chill up his spine.

“Let him through!” came a loud voice from behind Crowley, and he froze in surprise.

The crowd murmured behind him, and he saw the first guard shift his gaze to something behind Crowley.

Crowley cast a glance over his shoulder as the crowd spit out one of their own. The angel who’d been pushed forward looked suddenly very nervous and slightly embarrassed, glancing back at the crowd. She brushed herself off self-consciously, and seemed to realise that the angels behind her were expecting her to say something else.

She cast Crowley a nervous glance, and he guessed she was a throne, if Heaven’s dress code hadn’t changed since he’d first Fallen.

“Well,” she said, in a quiet, hoarse voice. “Our Father has Redeemed him, has He not?”

The crowd shifted, and someone hissed that she should speak louder.

The throne cleared her throat, cast Crowley another nervous look, and said, in a louder voice, “Father has chosen to return him to divinity, and so we should welcome him.”

The crowd shifted uncomfortably, and Crowley blinked at her in surprise.

“He’s a traitor!” someone yelled, and a ripple went through the crowd.

“A traitor to whom?” the throne asked, walking back towards the crowd, the conviction in her voice overcoming her nervousness. “A traitor to the Fallen is no traitor to us.”

The crowd rumbled unhappily, but no one stepped forward to disagree.

The throne glanced back over at Crowley again and then strode across the clearing that had formed to address another area of the crowd. “Our Father told us the parables of the lost sheep and the prodigal son. And yet, here is the lost sheep, at last returned to the flock; here is the prodigal son. And you would stand here and openly deny the wishes of our Father?”

There was a loud rumble from the crowd, and a couple of angels spoke up at once, voices clamouring to be heard. Crowley took the opportunity to edge a little closer to the gate.

“Clearly this is a ruse!” one of the voices finally broke through, and a blond angel forced his way to the front of the crowd. He looked rather cross, and Crowley recognised him as one of the angels who’d started tailing him at the junction.

“Our Father has never revoked His judgment before,” the blond angel continued, jabbing a finger at Crowley. “This abomination is no more a sheep than a wolf in sheep’s clothing.” The crowd, to Crowley’s dismay, rumbled assent.

The throne moved towards her challenger, hands raised in an almost pleading gesture. “Or maybe our Father has sent us this miracle as a sign, and one which we would be well-advised to follow.”

The crowd rumbled again, and Crowley realised with some surprise that they hadn’t yet made up their mind about him. But while it might have been in his best interests to stay and convince them that he was harmless, he was painfully aware of the seconds ticking by, and a promise he had already broken.

He turned back to the guards. “You really ought to let me through,” Crowley said in an undertone, edging closer.

“Stay where you are,” the female guard said sharply, tilting the tip of her sword towards him threateningly. Crowley eyed it nervously—he was within easy striking distance now—but it looked different than Aziraphale’s old sword, so he supposed it at least wasn’t prone to bursting into flames at any moment.

“Look,” Crowley said, sighing and switching tacks to honesty. “I’m really not going to cause any trouble, okay? I just—I want to visit a friend of mine.”

The male guard snorted, but his companion frowned at Crowley, sword still raised.

“What’s in the box?” she asked, eyes flicking down to it.

Crowley adjusted his grip nervously on the box. “Cake,” he said honestly.

“Likely story,” the male guard huffed.

Behind them, new voices broke out, and Crowley felt any small measure of control he had over the situation quickly evaporate. If the crowd turned into a mob, his chances of getting out alive weren’t particularly good.

Crowley glanced at his watch and saw with horror that it had been over twenty minutes since he’d left Aziraphale. He had broken so many promises to Aziraphale already, and now he had broken the first one he’d made to him after finding out that he wasn’t gone forever. Crowley felt anger start to stir in him, anger at his own failings that he channelled into annoyance at the obstacle in his path.

“Well, I am not moving until you let me through,” he said stubbornly.

“You’ll be standing there a long time, then,” the male guard said, voice darkening slightly as he adjusted his grip on his sword.

Crowley felt his patience begin to wear thin, aura brightening in irritation. “Look,” he said crossly, “either you move, or I make you move.”

“It is unwise to threaten us,” the female guard said sharply, the tip of her sword edging closer.

Crowley shifted the box in his arms so he was only supporting it with one hand. A weapon would have been nice, but he had once prepared to face Lucifer with naught but a tyre iron, so he thought he might have a chance against these two unarmed.

Fortunately for Crowley’s pride, at that moment there was an incredibly bright burst of light from directly overhead. Crowley ducked instinctively as a wave of celestial power rolled over him, heart constricting in fear, but the power only passed harmlessly over him. It took him a breathless moment to remember that he was now immune from the sort of accidental smiting that sometimes occurred when a demon was in close proximity to a powerful angel.

There was a blur of white feathers among the fading light, and Crowley hastily straightened up as a copper-skinned woman touched down in the centre of all the commotion. The crowd behind Crowley, which had dispersed into a number of smaller groups, fell immediately silent and fractured even further, the members finding interesting things to look at in the grass.

“What _exactly_ is going on here?” the newcomer demanded. The brilliant light was rapidly fading but the aftertaste of the raw power was still hanging in the air, sharp and strangely bright. The angel turned in a sharp circle, taking in those present, and Crowley saw with a feeling of sinking horror that she had two pairs of brilliant white wings—she was an archangel. He was as good as dead.

Crowley racked his mind, running through his memories of the archangels from before the Fall, struggling to remember some detail that might yet save his life. Crowley thought he would have recognised Michael, Gabriel, or Raphael on sight, as well as Jerahmiel, whom he had worked for very briefly before his Fall, but between the remaining three—

“Azrael, my lord, the de—the once-Fallen angel is here,” the female guard said smartly, pointing at Crowley and sheathing her sword. Her partner just looked relieved that, now that his superior was here, someone else would be handling the matter.

Azrael’s eyes found Crowley and seemed to take in his entire existence in a second, reducing him to a digit in a maths problem. She pursed her lips thoughtfully. Crowley, who was feeling increasingly like any breath could be his last, quickly averted his gaze to the ground in case it might help.

 _I should never have left him,_ Crowley thought wretchedly to himself, feeling his eyes begin to burn. _Damn the cake, I should never have left Aziraphale. He’s never going to know what happened, that I tried to get back—_

Azrael turned to face the crowd of angels still arrayed behind them, opposite the gate. “I believe you all have duties to be attending to,” she said sharply, and the crowd quickly started to disperse.

Crowley kept his gaze trained on the ground, fingers beginning to hurt from how tightly he was gripping the cake box.

Once it was clear that none of the angels were going to stick around and cause a fuss, Azrael turned back to Crowley and the pair of guards.

“So you are Crowley.” It was a statement, but Crowley felt obliged to answer, particularly since his compliance might be the only thing keeping him alive.

“Yes.” He swallowed and then quickly added, “Ma’am.”

Azrael didn’t say anything for a long moment, and when Crowley risked a glance up, heart still pounding rapidly in his chest, he saw that she was studying him.

He shifted uncertainly and glanced over at the guards, since presumably they were more familiar with the archangel’s mannerisms than he was, but they seemed equally perplexed.

“Why are you here?” Azrael asked after a moment.

Crowley fixed his gaze on the box in his hands. “I’m—er, this may sound strange—but I’m here to visit a—er, very good friend of mine. Ma’am.”

“Aziraphale.” Her voice gave nothing away.

Crowley felt his wings shrink closer to his back, but he forced the uncertainty out of his voice. “Yes.” He swallowed.

There was another brief silence, and Crowley risked a glance up at Azrael. To his surprise, she was looking at him with something almost like approval. Then she switched her gaze to the guards, and the expression was gone.

“You are to let him pass,” she instructed them. “I will alert the others. He is to come and go as he pleases. Do you understand?”

Crowley blinked at her in surprise, feeling himself start breathing again.

“Yes, my lord,” the guards chorused, no hint of their opinions of the order evident in their voices. They moved off towards the silver gate.

“Thanks,” Crowley mumbled in Azrael’s direction once the guards were out of earshot, barely able to believe his incredible stroke of luck.

“It is my charge to keep the souls of the departed happy,” Azrael told him, voice surprisingly kind, “and Aziraphale has been most difficult in that regard.”

Crowley cast her a sharp glance, but her expression betrayed nothing.

“I trust that you will not further compound this issue,” she continued calmly, “or my magnanimity may be rescinded.”

It took Crowley several seconds to realise that she was threatening him.

“No, no,” he stammered, hastily revising his opinion of the archangel from _surprisingly reasonable_ back to _tread very carefully_.

“Good.” Azrael gave him a brisk nod and turned away, four wings flexing slightly as she prepared to take off again. “Do not disappoint me.”

There was a quiet scrape of metal on metal and Crowley turned to see that the guards had pulled the silver gate open for him.

All thoughts of Azrael vanished as Crowley’s eyes locked onto the sea of heavens, nothing else standing in his path. He adjusted his grip on the cake box and hurried forward before the guards could change their mind.

“See, that wasn’t so hard, was it?” he asked as he passed them, probably more cheekily than was wise.

Neither guard responded, though they did close the gate behind him. Crowley kept walking, emerging from underneath the barrel vault of the gate complex’s central bay and onto a smooth white platform. It dropped off after a few metres, leaving only the bizarre, twisting shapes of colour and light that Crowley knew were the individual heavens, each one holding the soul of a righteous human and shaped to the specifications of that soul’s imagination.

Crowley walked right to the front of the platform, unfurled his wings, and pushed off from the edge without breaking stride.

Much to his chagrin, he couldn’t even remember in which direction Aziraphale’s heaven lay, but luckily the air here was filled with auras. There must have been hundreds of thousands, if not millions, of souls packed into this space, each with their own distinct aura, but Crowley knew exactly which one he was looking for, down to the tiniest detail.

It only took him another two minutes to hone in on the signature, and he felt his stomach do a strange little flip as he picked it out. Aziraphale’s human aura on Earth had been undetectable, but here it was as strong as when he’d been an angel, though without that feeling of stardust that Crowley had come to associate with the divine. Crowley hadn’t realised how much he’d grown used to Aziraphale’s aura until it had vanished, but even now, without the sprinkle of divine stardust, he didn’t think it felt any inch less fundamentally _Aziraphale_.

As he dropped closer to his target, folding his wings in and making sure he was holding the cake box as level as he could, Crowley wondered absently if his own aura now held a hint of stardust.

Crowley’s surroundings blurred momentarily, wings executing a last-minute course correction, and then his feet touched down on asphalt.

He took a moment to get his bearings—he had landed outside of Aziraphale’s Soho bookshop again—and then headed for the door, looping around the Bentley as he did so.

Crowley paused for a fraction of a second at the door, wondering if he ought to knock as he had before, but then he just pushed the door open and stepped inside.

He drew breath to call Aziraphale’s name, but before he had the chance to speak a wonderfully familiar voice beat him to it. “And what kind of time do you call this?”

Crowley’s searching eyes, still adjusting to the lower light level, found Aziraphale, and he couldn’t stop a relieved grin from crossing his face.

Aziraphale looked literally exactly the same as he had when Crowley had left him mere minutes before, but somehow it felt like Crowley was seeing him for the first time all over again.

Aziraphale just looked so damn _familiar_ , crossing the length of the bookshop towards him, expression a cross between worry and relief despite his curt words. All the marks of age and the stress of his later years had been wiped from his face, leaving him almost glowing with health and life, and despite the irony Crowley thought he’d never tire of looking at him.

Crowley moved forward, sliding the box onto the corner of the bookshop table. He opened his mouth to apologise for his tardiness, but Aziraphale cut him off again, throwing his arms around Crowley and pulling him into a hug.

Crowley returned the gesture immediately, wrapping his arms around Aziraphale and trying not to bury his nose too noticeably in his friend’s shoulder. _God_ , it was so nice to be able to actually _interact_ with Aziraphale like this, to act and watch Aziraphale respond, and know that he was as present to Aziraphale as Aziraphale was to him. And Aziraphale was real and solid and so very much _himself_ in a way that had been sorely lacking in his last months.

Crowley could still feel his grief weighing on him, unable to shake the fact that he’d been so without hope for so long. And then, just now, Azrael could have chosen to smite him, or maybe just refused to let him enter, and then Aziraphale would have still been here, alone, waiting for him to return…

“ _Thirty-one minutes_ , Crowley,” Aziraphale said hoarsely into his ear. “ _Thirty-one minutes_.”

“I’m really sorry,” Crowley said, pulling Aziraphale closer and trying not to think about what might have happened had Azrael not arrived when she had. “Traffic was heaven.”

Aziraphale gave an actual chuckle at that, and Crowley felt something in him brighten in response. Crowley smiled and forced himself to release Aziraphale, holding the former angel at arm’s length. “I got caught up at the gate,” he explained. “They didn’t want to let me in, but then Azrael—the archangel—showed up and told them to.”

Aziraphale blinked at him in surprise. “Azrael was there?”

Crowley nodded, still feeling very unsettled about the entire thing himself but not wanting to worry Aziraphale with the details just yet. He looked wrung out enough as it was. “I’ll tell you all about it later,” he promised. “But in the meantime, Harper made a fantastic cake for us.”

Aziraphale gave him a slightly worried smile but allowed Crowley to divert his attention. Crowley picked the cake box up again and they moved to the rear of the bookshop, where a doorway led to a perfect replica of their Midfarthing cottage. Crowley set the box on the kitchen table—which was really more of a living room table because the kitchen was too small for anything but cooking—and started opening it up while Aziraphale fetched plates, a knife, and a pair of forks.

“Harper did a really nice job,” Crowley commented as he freed the cake from its boxboard prison. “He says there’s raspberry flavouring on the inside too.”

Aziraphale returned from the kitchen a moment later, and Crowley fancied his expression brightened when he saw the cake. “Oh, it looks lovely. Is it a cream cake?”

“Of course,” Crowley said, taking the plates and knife from Aziraphale. Cream cakes were Aziraphale’s favourite, so naturally Crowley couldn’t have asked Harper for anything else.

He started cutting up the cake, pulling out an exceptionally large slice and plopping it down on a plate for Aziraphale. He slid it in front of the former angel, who sank into his chair.

Crowley cut a much smaller slice for himself, because his stomach was still coiled tightly from the events of the day and he didn’t think he’d be able to eat much. Aziraphale, on the other hand—Aziraphale loved cream cake. The only time Crowley could remember him ever turning it down was their very last time at the Ritz, when the pair of them had ventured out of the safety of Midfarthing for one last trip around their old haunts in London. Back when Aziraphale had been dying, slowly, a little more each day, for _years_.

The memories were still stark and raw, and Crowley just stood there for a moment, knife hovering over the piece of cake he’d cut for himself, struggling to accept their sting.

It took him a few seconds to realise that Aziraphale was watching him worriedly, fork poised over his own slice. Crowley shook himself and sat down, propping the knife up next to the remainder of the cake. He took a deep, steadying breath and fixed his eyes on the piece of cake in front of him.

Aziraphale wasn’t dying anymore, he told himself. He was here, safe. Everything was fine.

Crowley cut off a corner of his piece with his fork. He lifted it to his mouth to take a bite, but just then he glanced over at Aziraphale and froze.

The former angel had gone very still, eyes closed and the back of one hand near his mouth. He was still holding his fork, and evidently had just taken a bite.

“A—Aziraphale?” Crowley stammered, feeling worry spike through him as he hastily lowered his own fork. Was there something wrong with the cake?

Aziraphale swallowed and opened his eyes, setting his fork back down on his plate, leaving the rest of his slice untouched. There was an incredibly tight feeling in the pit of Crowley’s stomach, and any appetite he’d had at all evaporated in an instant.

“Are—is something wrong?” Crowley asked.

Aziraphale shook his head mutely, and it took Crowley a second to realise that he looked like he was on the edge of tears.

Alarmed, Crowley looked down at his own slice of cake and then back at Aziraphale, at a loss. “Is the cake bad? Did Harper—”

He broke off as Aziraphale shook his head again, and then the former angel finally found his voice. “It’s—it’s delicious,” he managed at last. His eyes met Crowley’s, and they looked slightly damp. “It’s really, _really_ , properly delicious. It’s _real_.”

Crowley blinked at him in confusion. “Well, of course it’s real…?” he said, bemused.

Aziraphale shook his head again mutely, looking overcome by some emotion. Crowley watched helplessly.

“The food here,” Aziraphale began, haltingly, after a moment, “none of it tastes quite right. There’s always something a little off—but there’s nothing off here, there’s nothing… _missing_. It’s not just something I’m imagining, like all the rest—and if _it’s_ real, then—that means— _you_ —”

Aziraphale reached a hand hesitantly across the table and Crowley latched onto it immediately, squeezing the former angel’s hand with his own. “I’m real,” Crowley said quickly, wondering with some alarm if there had ever been a version of himself that wasn’t.

Aziraphale nodded, unshed tears still glimmering in his eyes, but mostly he just looked overwhelmed by relief and disbelief.

After a moment Aziraphale sniffled and extricated his hand gently from Crowley’s grip, dabbling embarrassedly at his eyes with the back of his sleeve. “Sorry,” he mumbled, “I—it’ll just take some getting used to, is all.”

Crowley nodded, thinking the same thing himself. He was beginning to realise that this wasn’t the same Aziraphale who had died in his arms amongst the lilies after all. This Aziraphale was older than that, and with the full span of his memories returned, but perhaps most importantly this Aziraphale had spent almost the entirety of the last year in Heaven, alone.

He remembered Azrael’s words, and wondered with no small amount of worry what exactly Aziraphale had been doing while Crowley drank himself senseless and struggled to find a reason to get up in the morning.

“Just—take all the time you need,” Crowley said as Aziraphale turned back to his cake, poking at it hopefully with his fork. “I’m not going anywhere anytime soon.”

Aziraphale nodded gratefully and cast him a slightly sly glance. “Not even to fetch cake?”

Crowley huffed a short laugh and looked back down at his own slice. Maybe Aziraphale _had_ changed, but that didn’t mean he was any less eager to reacquaint himself. “Until I know for certain the bastards will let me back in, this is all the cake you’re getting, angel, so you’d better enjoy it.”

“Oh, I am,” Aziraphale said, and when Crowley looked over at him, he saw that Aziraphale was giving him a beatific smile even through the dampness still around his eyes. “It really is a wonderful cake.”


	2. To Christmas

The next few hours passed in a haze of mutual relief, most of it spent in the heavenly cottage as Aziraphale plied Crowley with tea and Crowley, in turn, filled Aziraphale in on Azrael’s timely intervention and the angels that had followed him to the gate.

“Do you think they’re likely to cause trouble?” Aziraphale asked, sounding concerned.

Crowley shrugged and gave the cup of tea Aziraphale had made him a little swirl with his spoon. “Maybe. Some of them definitely weren’t too pleased about my being there, but I don’t know if they’re actually going to do anything about it. If this were Hell, I’d say absolutely, but I don’t know if these angels have the nerve.”

Aziraphale frowned. “They will if they’re told you’re fair game. You said they were talking about God; if they think your unFalling is a divine sign, you may be safe. That’s how the archangels saw my ending up up here, in any case.”

Aziraphale filled him in on Azrael’s visit to his heaven shortly after his death.

“Well, if they decided to ignore you, maybe they’ll ignore me too, then,” Crowley said hopefully.

Aziraphale’s mouth twisted and he looked down at his own cup of tea. “Perhaps. I don’t think it’s common knowledge that I’m here, though. The angels would have sensed my Fall, and then later your unFall, but as far as I know Azrael and maybe some of her higher-ranking guards are the only ones who know I Fell to human and then came here. I wouldn’t be surprised if the archangels are keeping it quiet; it’s in their best interests to maintain the illusion that everything’s under control.”

“Well, I think everyone in Heaven right now knows who I am,” Crowley said. “So who knows how that’s going to pan out.”

Aziraphale grunted agreement and for a quiet moment they both just drank their tea. Aziraphale had been right about it not tasting quite right; it seemed to be missing a certain… _dimensionality_ , but Crowley couldn’t quite put his finger on exactly what it was.

Once they’d finished their tea, Aziraphale offered to show him around properly, and they passed the rest of the afternoon wandering around the bookshop and cottage. Crowley tried to pay attention to what Aziraphale was saying—pointing out some of the books he’d lost on Earth when his bookshop burned during the failed Apocalypse, explaining that the bookshop had a back room again—but he kept getting distracted by Aziraphale himself.

Despite the subtle changes that must have occurred over the last year, Aziraphale was still so very much like his previous self, the version Crowley had slowly lost. All of the tiny pieces of himself that had faded away as his memory fled him had finally reassembled themselves into someone that was so quintessentially _Aziraphale_ that it seemed he couldn’t possibly be real.

This wasn’t helped by the fact that, as it was, Crowley couldn’t resist the urge to touch Aziraphale on the elbow or shoulder every now and then, just to reassure himself that he wasn’t a particularly realistic hallucination.

Aziraphale usually started at the contact whenever Crowley did this, and though he recovered quickly and sometimes even patted Crowley reassuringly back, Crowley found himself wondering a little worriedly when the last time was Aziraphale had had anything approaching physical contact.

Aziraphale spent an inordinate amount of time showing him the bookshop, going through the aisles one by one and plucking books off the shelves seemingly at random, rambling on about their various contents. Crowley wasn’t entirely certain what exactly was so interesting about the books, but he was content to just follow Aziraphale and soak in the sound of his voice.

The Aziraphale most recently in Crowley’s memory hadn’t even been able to read, only sit quietly while Crowley read to him, a task Crowley had kept up even when he knew the Fallen angel was no longer listening to him. Aziraphale had always loved books, but he’d lost that passion, there at the end, as he’d lost so much of himself.

Watching Aziraphale now, plucking his books from their shelves and summarising their contents with apparent ease…if Aziraphale wanted to walk him through the talking points of every book he’d ever owned, Crowley was more than happy to listen.

Eventually Aziraphale reached the end of the last aisle and hesitated, Crowley waiting patiently beside him. Aziraphale seemed on the brink of saying something, eyes flicking nervously towards the front of the shop, but then he turned and started across to the other side of the bookshop, where even more bookshelves awaited.

And Aziraphale took him through all of those. It was fairly apparent he was rambling because he didn’t know what to do if he stopped, but Crowley was still attempting to process the events of the last twelve hours himself. He kept finding himself attempting to memorise Aziraphale’s appearance and movements, trying to solidify this day in his memory. It took him a while to realise that he was doing it because there was a part of him that honestly didn’t believe this was happening. He kept expecting Aziraphale to vanish like mist, or for Heaven’s guards to burst into the shop, or for him to jolt into wakefulness to find Bert leaning over him, telling him he really needed to stop drinking to excess. Where Aziraphale was concerned, Crowley had long since given up the illusion of permanence and security.

Indeed, when Aziraphale finally did reach the far side of the bookshop, he seemed utterly uncertain of what to do next, eyes continuously flicking between Crowley and various spots around the bookshop.

“Er, there are more books in the back, if you wanted to—I mean—”

“Whatever you want,” Crowley said, and meant it. He’d been having trouble tearing his gaze away from Aziraphale for the last hour, and had completely ceased listening to what he was actually saying some time before that. “Though it is a while after dinnertime.” His voice was mild.

A look of surprise crossed Aziraphale’s face and he glanced at his watch in confusion. “Really? The time just flies, doesn’t it, dear me.” Aziraphale started bustling off in the direction of the cottage and Crowley followed, as he realised now that he always would. Follow Aziraphale, wherever he went. “I’m quite sorry, my dear, you should have said something—I must have been boring you to death—we might have something in the fridge—?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Crowley said, following— _following_ —Aziraphale into the kitchen and watching as he started darting around nervously. “I’m not very hungry anyway.”

“No? Oh, good. I’m afraid I don’t have much lying around—maybe we could make more tea, I have plenty of that—or the cake, since you brought it. Or is it too soon to be having cake again? I’m sorry; I really should have—”

“Zira,” Crowley said, crossing the distance between them and laying a hand on his friend’s elbow, marvelling at his ability to carry out the simple gesture. “It’s fine. Really.”

Aziraphale ceased his nervous rambling at Crowley’s touch, casting him a look that was simultaneously worried and exhausted. “Are you sure?” he asked anxiously. “I’m sorry I’m being such a poor host; I really should have planned for this better—”

“Angel, everything’s fine,” Crowley said soothingly. For a moment their eyes met, and Crowley felt an intense urge to pull him into another hug. _God_ , even this rambling, worried Aziraphale was such a very welcome sight. And he looked so anxious, as though there was anything he could do right now that would make Crowley anything less than absolutely delighted to see him.

“Come on, sit down and we’ll have more cake,” Crowley said, quickly taking his hand off Aziraphale’s elbow and fighting what was most certainly _not_ a blush of embarrassment.

“I’ll make tea,” Aziraphale volunteered immediately. “Tea and cake, then, if that’s all right with you.”

“Perfectly.”

Though nominally a simple enough task, it took them fifteen minutes to get everything ready, not least of all because Crowley refused to let Aziraphale out of his line of sight for more than a few seconds, and also because Aziraphale insisted on pouring Crowley a second cup of tea after he claimed he’d put too much sugar in the first time. Frankly, Crowley didn’t care how much sugar was in his tea, as long as Aziraphale was the one handing it to him, but the former angel overrode his objections that he really didn’t mind all that much either way.

While they were eating their abbreviated dinner—Crowley’s tea still lacking a little _je ne sais quoi_ , though he didn’t think it had anything to do with the sugar—Crowley started filling Aziraphale in on some of the things he’d been up to.

He skated over many of the instances he had personally been involved in, since most of them involved him mourning for Aziraphale. Crowley did not want to even consider remembering those days right now, so he focussed instead on the activities of the villagers and some of the things he’d seen while abroad. He kept it all as lighthearted as possible, steering around any issues with weight, unwilling to worry Aziraphale with the details of things he couldn’t change. Not right now, at least, not when Crowley had just got him back. And if this _was_ some sort of fever dream he would soon wake from, Crowley doubly didn’t want to waste it grappling with serious issues.

So he told Aziraphale about Walter Jamieson’s trial, Harper’s expectant wife Mara, and Bert’s upcoming marriage to, of all people, the cat-loving runner of the local B&B, Donnie Summers.

Aziraphale was actually less surprised by this last than Crowley had been, noting that they always had seemed to get along rather well. He appeared interested in everything Crowley had to say, though sometimes he’d nod along to things like he already knew what Crowley was talking about; he remembered Aziraphale saying he’d found a way to keep an eye on him and made a mental note to ask him about it later, if there was a later.

By the time Crowley was running out of safe topics to discuss, the sun had already slunk beneath the horizon, the sky rapidly darkening outside the cottage windows.

“Is time here synced up with Earth?” Crowley asked, glancing at his watch.

“I think so,” Aziraphale said, glancing out the window himself. “As best as I can tell, in any case.” Aziraphale’s head swung back around and he paused, uncertainty evident in his features. “Did you want to…be heading back down?”

Crowley glanced at him, but Aziraphale had studiously fixed his gaze on the bottom of his empty teacup. “It _is_ getting rather late. You must be exhausted.”

Crowley swallowed, uncertain why exactly his heart was constricting slightly in his chest. “Er, I was thinking I could stay here?” he ventured, a little cautiously. “If you don’t mind. I don’t think I want to run the risk of them not letting me back in—”

He broke off as he saw Aziraphale look up in what might have been relief, though his features soon schooled themselves into something less strong.

“No, no, I don’t mind at all,” Aziraphale said quickly, standing up. “Er, I can take your cup if you like…”

It wasn’t long before Aziraphale was showing Crowley upstairs, as though this wasn’t an exact replica of the same cottage Crowley had been living in for most of the last nineteen years.

“I think it should all be there,” Aziraphale said, that hint of nervousness back in his tone as he preceded the unFallen angel down the hallway. “I didn’t really have a, er, look around, though, so let me know if you need anything—”

“I’m sure I can make do,” Crowley said calmly.

“Well, yes, of course,” Aziraphale said quickly. His weight shifted slightly, as though he’d been meaning to step towards Crowley, but then he just raised a hand and rubbed nervously at the back of his neck. “Er, well, good night then, my dear.”

“Good night,” Crowley said in return. Though it was only sensible for the two of them to go their separate ways and get some rest, Crowley felt himself fighting that same irrational urge to not let Aziraphale leave his sight.

Aziraphale gave him a smile that seemed more forced than it should have been, and then he headed down the hallway towards his own room.

Crowley stared after him and only convinced himself to open his door when Aziraphale had vanished behind his own.

Crowley’s room was indeed much as he remembered it, and if there were alterations he wasn’t interested enough in finding them. He only rummaged through his drawers long enough to locate a pair of pyjamas, turning the oddly familiar flannel over in his hands. He changed quickly and then slipped under the covers of his bed, letting out a tense sigh as he sank into the mattress.

It was dark and quiet, and Crowley found himself staring up at the sloped ceiling, straining to hear any sound from Aziraphale’s room.

He’d done this so many times, on so many nights: stayed awake in his own room while struggling to hear any sound from Aziraphale’s, worried sick about one thing or another. There had always been the nightmares to worry about, and then during those last months Crowley had hoped against hope every night that he might wake to find Aziraphale still with him in the land of the living. Forced to watch as he deteriorated more and more every day, waiting for and dreading the inevitable…

Crowley shivered, wrapping his fingers in the tartan scarf still around his neck. The motion calmed him slightly, and he tried closing his eyes, hoping that might entice him to fall asleep. Aziraphale had been saved, after all—he was just fine, back to his old self, even, rambling on about books and obsessed with making tea. It was, in Crowley’s opinion, nothing short of a miracle. Here he was, an angel again, in Heaven with Aziraphale by his side. What more could he ask for?

Crowley forced his breathing to slow, trying to calm his beating heart. He kept telling himself there was nothing for him to worry about, nothing at all, but that didn’t stop him from worrying nonetheless. Aziraphale had seemed anxious and a little on edge, hadn’t he? Had Crowley been doing something wrong? Would Azrael change her mind and arrive to remove him at any moment?

And that was assuming this whole thing wasn’t some elaborate hallucination. It didn’t feel like one, not if the pounding of his heart in his ears was any indication, but that didn’t stop him from thinking anxiously that, even now, Aziraphale might be fading away.

After a few more minutes of staring up at the ceiling and letting his worry gnaw away at him, Crowley pushed back the covers and rolled out of bed.

The room looked so much like its counterpart in the real cottage, down on Earth, that Crowley was disoriented for a moment. He made his way to the door and out into the hallway, walking towards the door to Aziraphale’s room.

He wasn’t going to wake the former angel; he just wanted to sit on the ledge by his window and keep an eye on him. In retrospect, Crowley thought, that was probably pretty weird, but he’d given up on judging himself for the actions he needed to take to get peace of mind a long time ago. He’d done this dozens of times before, when Aziraphale’s health had been flagging, on those nights when he’d been paralysed with the fear that Aziraphale wouldn’t survive the morning. It had been immensely reassuring just to be able to watch over his angel, seeing the rise and fall of his chest and knowing that he hadn’t left him yet.

Crowley eased the door open as quietly as he could and tiptoed inside the darkened room. His gaze fell quickly on the bed, and he froze. Aziraphale wasn’t here.

Crowley felt his breaths double in panic, mind flashing back to the events of the last year.

Before he could react further, however, he cast out his senses and let out a huge breath of relief when he felt his friend’s aura nearby. Aziraphale was still in the vicinity, just not in bed, was all.

Crowley swallowed his worry and headed back into the hallway, quietly closing Aziraphale’s door behind him. He moved down the stairs next, following the feeling of Aziraphale’s aura.

He reached the bottom of the stairs and manoeuvred through the darkened kitchen, noting that the lights were on in the living room.

He found Aziraphale sitting at the table, slowly stirring a cup of tea.

“Isn’t it a bit late for that?” Crowley asked, clearing his throat and moving into the former angel’s line of sight.

Aziraphale jumped a little and looked up in surprise. “Crowley! Do you need something, my dear?” He half-started out of his chair, but Crowley waved him back down.

“No, no, just…couldn’t sleep is all.” He moved around the table and dropped into his own chair.

Aziraphale relaxed slightly and gave him a rueful smile. “You too?”

“Too much…excitement, I suppose,” Crowley said, trying not to make it too obvious that he was drinking in the sight of Aziraphale again, looking slightly tired, hair uncombed, but just as radiant as ever.

Aziraphale hummed agreement and went back to stirring his tea, slowly. It looked like he’d been stirring it for quite a while.

For a time they just sat there, and then Aziraphale cleared his throat awkwardly and asked, “Do you want a drink, by any chance?”

 

~~***~~

 

It was a bottle from the same vintage they always shared at Christmas; though Crowley had exhausted their earthly supply, Aziraphale’s heaven had seen fit to furnish him with a number of bottles he hadn’t been able to convince himself to touch.

It had seemed wrong, drinking them without Crowley, but now that the former demon was here, it seemed like perhaps the only thing worth drinking.

After retrieving the bottle, Aziraphale pulled open one of the cabinets and drew out their glasses— _theirs_ , again to be used, against all odds.

Crowley smiled as Aziraphale handed him his glass, but when the former demon got a good look at the bottle, his expression faltered and a haunted look came into his eyes.

This had been happening quite a lot, and Aziraphale found his anxiety growing each time it did. He was seeing up close what he’d before only glimpsed through the mirror, and knew that the pain Crowley was remembering was something Aziraphale had subjected him to.

Aziraphale had tried to keep their conversation on safe grounds, but the look had followed Crowley everywhere. And even when it wasn’t coming into his eyes it was etched on his face, in his frightfully pale skin and the worried marks between his eyebrows and around the corners of his mouth. The marks Aziraphale had put there.

Because as much as Aziraphale wanted to pretend that much of the last nineteen years had never happened, the fact remained that they had, and the Crowley sitting in front of him was a product of that.

“I’m—I’m sorry about Christmas,” Crowley said at last, shifting his gaze up to Aziraphale. The honesty was bare in his voice, and Aziraphale swallowed when he saw the raw look in his eyes. It was all still fresh for Crowley, Aziraphale reminded himself. Yesterday, Crowley had thought he was completely dead.

“It’s okay,” Aziraphale said, because even though it wasn’t, it wasn’t Crowley’s fault. “We can just celebrate it a little late, how about that?”

Crowley looked a little relieved at the suggestion and nodded quickly. “Yes, I suppose we could.”

Aziraphale opened the bottle and set about pouring them two glasses. Crowley seemed to be on the verge of saying something, but when Aziraphale glanced over at him he just looked conflicted, eyes on the matching wine glasses.

Aziraphale finished pouring the wine and handed Crowley his glass.

“I’m really sorry about Christmas,” Crowley said again, nervously, as he accepted it. “If I had known you were here—if I’d known any sooner—”

Aziraphale felt some part of himself brighten a little at Crowley’s words, but he tried not to read too much into them. “I know,” he said instead. “I tried everything I could think of to get you a message, but there was only so much I could do without my powers—”

“Oh, no, I don’t mean it’s your fault,” Crowley said hastily, cutting him off. Aziraphale looked at him sideways, a little surprised. “Er,” Crowley said, quickly averting his eyes to his glass of wine. “I just mean, you must have—you had to—up here—Bert came over,” he said, staring furiously at his glass. He sounded nervous. “On Christmas evening. I didn’t ask him too, but he did—I should have told him to leave, but I just—he was a friendly face, you know? And I was…But I…it doesn’t seem…?” Crowley trailed off, looking miserably down at his wine glass.

Aziraphale leaned over and put his hand on Crowley’s elbow, encouraging him to stand. Crowley glanced up at him worriedly, but allowed himself to be drawn to his feet.

“Come make it up to me, then,” Aziraphale said, nodding in the direction of the sofa.

Crowley nodded at the suggestion, and a moment later they’d assumed their regular positions on the sofa. For a moment Aziraphale was overcome by emotion, just sitting next to Crowley—he was so used to sitting here alone, on his half of the sofa, looking down at the mirror while Crowley’s spot beside him remained painfully vacant. It felt a little strange for that spot to be filled again, after all this time, but in a good way, like rediscovering a long-forgotten favourite book.

Crowley seemed to be thinking something similar himself, because when Aziraphale glanced discreetly over at him, his grip was very tight on the wine glass.

After a long moment Aziraphale cleared his throat awkwardly and moved his glass towards Crowley’s in preparation for a toast. “To Christmas,” he said, “no matter what month it’s in.”

The corner of Crowley’s mouth twitched up, and Aziraphale found himself deeply gratified to see even that tiny glimmer of amusement. If he had to devote the rest of his life to just coaxing smiles out of Crowley, drawing him away from the shadowed look that still haunted his eyes, he would consider that a life well-lived.

“To Adam Young, that’s who,” Crowley said, clinking his glass against Aziraphale’s, “the right bastard.”

Aziraphale choked out a laugh, and when he raised his glass to his lips, he glanced out of the corner of his eye at Crowley only to see that Crowley was looking back at him, a hint of a proper smile on his face.

Aziraphale quickly diverted his gaze and took a hasty gulp of wine.

“Do you remember that time in Tenochtitlan, angel,” Crowley began after a moment, “when that priest finally worked out I _wasn’t_ Quetzalcoatl…”

Aziraphale did remember that time, as well as the next several ones Crowley brought up. Before long they’d fallen into their regular Christmas routine, discussing old triumphs and failures, and Aziraphale was heartened when he managed to elicit a few smiles from the former demon. It was like teasing rays of sun out from between clouds, and it was one of the most rewarding things Aziraphale had ever done. There had been so very few smiles, in the mirror.

They worked their way steadily through the bottle, and though Aziraphale knew there were more in the kitchen, he didn’t particularly want to leave Crowley’s side, and Crowley didn’t seem to mind only having the one bottle.

When the last of it was gone, they just sat there for a few long moments, gazing into the dark, quiet fireplace and ostensibly searching their memories for further misadventures to relate.

Then Crowley gave a long sigh, cast Aziraphale a brief, sideways glance, and fixed his gaze back on the grate. “I thought you were dead, Zira,” he said quietly. “Really, properly, _actually_ dead.”

Aziraphale swallowed and joined Crowley in looking at the fireplace, accepting resignedly the serious turn the conversation had taken. “I know,” he said heavily, because he didn’t know what else to say, what he _could_ say.

“I—I missed you,” Crowley ventured, voice very quiet. Aziraphale cast him a slight glance, but Crowley’s gaze was downcast on the floor.

His hand was resting on the cushion between them and, before Aziraphale could stop himself, he reached out and took it. “I missed you, too,” Aziraphale said, giving Crowley’s hand what he hoped was a reassuring squeeze. Crowley’s skin was warm against his fingers, and the mere physicality of his presence was reassuring beyond words.

To Aziraphale’s relief, Crowley didn’t shy away from his touch, instead turning his hand so they could twine their fingers together. Aziraphale cast him a surprised look, but Crowley didn’t seem to think anything was the matter.

Aziraphale certainly wasn’t about to retract his hand, so for a long time they just sat there quietly, Crowley’s hand warm against Aziraphale’s.

But as much as Aziraphale wanted to enjoy this moment, there were a number of things weighing heavily on his conscience, and he supposed that now was as good a time as any to voice them.

“I would like to apologise,” he began. Crowley made a little noise that sounded like a negative, grip tightening slightly on Aziraphale’s hand, but Aziraphale continued on nonetheless, “for those last few years. The way I treated you was absolutely dreadful and inexcusable, and I can’t even imagine—”

“Angel, don’t—” Crowley protested, voice distressed, but now that Aziraphale had started he just wanted to be out with it.

“You really didn’t deserve it, any of it,” Aziraphale continued, the guilt washing over him anew. “It was bad enough as it was, and then things just got worse and worse. You were under absolutely no obligation to stay, but you did and I—I just also wanted to thank you for that. It’s still a little hazy for me, but having you around really did help, I think, even near the end.” Aziraphale took a shaky breath. “It was such a horrible way to go, really, and I’m just sorry it dragged on for so long.”

Crowley’s hand had gone a little clammy against his, and when he finally dared to give the former demon a nervous glance, it was to see that Crowley looked, if anything, a little nauseous.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale asked nervously.

It took Crowley a moment to find his voice, and when he did it was hoarse. “Don’t ever say that again,” he said, grip tightening on Aziraphale’s hand.

Confusion rolled over Aziraphale. “What do you—?”

“Don’t you ever say you wish it had been quicker,” Crowley said, in that same oddly hoarse tone. “I thought those were my last days with you, Aziraphale, I thought that was all I was going to get— _ever_ —so don’t you _dare_ say you wish it had been _quicker_.”

Aziraphale felt his stomach drop in horror. “Oh, no, no, that’s not what I meant at all, my dear, of course not,” he backpedalled quickly, squeezing Crowley’s hand in a desperate attempt at reassurance. “I just meant that, there were so many times I wasn’t myself, and I—that it wasn’t fair to you, is all.”

This seemed to moderately appease Crowley, and he calmed a little. “And don’t ever apologise for dying again,” he said, voice still a little hoarse. He gave Aziraphale a sharp glance out of the corner of his eye, and Aziraphale was surprised to see the faint tracks of tears glinting on his cheeks. “God knows we’ve both been discorporated enough times to know you don’t really have any power over that.”

“My dear,” Aziraphale said in concern, his free hand reaching across towards Crowley's face before he could think better of it. The tip of his forefinger just brushed Crowley’s jaw as he carefully ran the edge of his thumb over his friend's cheek, wiping away his tears as he’d wished to do so very many times.

The motion was unintentionally tender, and Aziraphale wouldn’t have been surprised if Crowley had pulled away, but instead Crowley just exhaled shakily, shifted a little closer, and rested his head on Aziraphale’s shoulder.

Aziraphale paused in surprise, the wetness from Crowley’s tears still on his thumb; though this wasn’t, all things considered, an unusual development for a night of drinking, neither of them had had very much alcohol, and he sincerely doubted Crowley was more than a little inebriated.

Crowley let out another shaky breath and Aziraphale adjusted his position so he could get a little more comfortable, the soft material of Crowley’s scarf a cushion between them. “Whatever happened before,” Crowley said, “for either of us…I’m just glad I’m here now.”

“I am too,” Aziraphale said, and squeezed Crowley’s hand.

Crowley made a pleased little humming noise.

For a long time they just sat there, Crowley with his head on Aziraphale’s shoulder, still holding his hand. Aziraphale was trying very hard to convince himself that this wasn’t a dream of some sort—Crowley hardly ever showed affection like this. Maybe Aziraphale’s death had changed him more than he suspected, or maybe unFalling had altered something in him.

In any case, Aziraphale stayed still until he felt Crowley’s breaths steady next to him, and knew that the former demon had fallen asleep. It must have been a dreadfully uncomfortable position to fall asleep in, but Crowley had managed to do it enough times over the years that maybe he’d grown used to it.

Crowley’s rhythmic breaths slowly calmed Aziraphale until he found himself just admiring their regularity. After so many days, so many _months_ , of watching Crowley through the mirror, unable to offer even a word of solace, here Crowley was at last, so incredibly _within reach_ that it seemed impossible he’d ever been anything but.

Aziraphale remembered his imagined Crowley, and was glad that he had turned down his offer of companionship. Already he had been more rewarded by a single day with this beautiful, real Crowley than he thought he would have over a hundred days with his imagined counterpart.

Aziraphale let out a long breath and tilted the side of his head ever so slightly towards Crowley’s, feeling the tickle of the former demon’s hair against his cheek. He was tired, so tired after months of perennial exhaustion, both physical and emotional. He wanted nothing more than to fall asleep here, with Crowley curled against him, but was afraid that, if he did, he’d wake in the morning to find that Crowley had vanished like all of Aziraphale’s other imaginary company.

But it was ever so quiet, and ever so dark, and Crowley seemed to be sleeping so soundly. If he focussed on the sensation of Crowley’s hand against his, he could even feel the unFallen angel’s heartbeat, steady and untroubled.

 _Maybe a little nap won’t hurt_ , Aziraphale thought to himself. _Just a quick one_.

He was still turning the prospect over in his head when his eyelids slunk closed of their own accord and he drifted away.


	3. A Match Made in Heaven

Crowley was cold.

He came to slowly, feeling better rested than he had in a long time. He was on his side, legs curled up awkwardly, and he registered almost immediately that something was wrong.

He was cold, but not just in the sense of temperature. Something was missing, something warm and essential and incredibly, unbelievably familiar and reassuring.

His cheek was pressed against a slightly rough fabric surface that he registered distantly as belonging to the sofa. He had fallen asleep on the sofa, then—that made sense; he’d awoken to find himself there many times before.

There was the faint, sticky feeling of tear-tracks down one cheek, and he could still taste the hint of alcohol on his lips. His hand, resting on the cushion of the sofa beside him, was cold.

Yes, he had awoken like this so very many times before. Too many times.

Still only properly half-awake, Crowley felt his thoughts stray unbidden to Aziraphale, and his hand sluggishly moved the few inches from the sofa cushion to the scarf around his neck, automatically reassuring himself that it was still there. The ever-present, heavy feeling of grief was settling into its usual place in the pit of his stomach, but something was still wrong.

Crowley’s eyes flickered open in confusion, dimly taking in the fuzzy shapes of the bookcases and the fireplace opposite the sofa. It wasn’t just his hand that was cold—that other warmth was missing, the one that had finally allowed him to drift off to sleep in the first place—that warm glow he hadn’t felt in almost two decades, the one that felt like books and tea and _home_ —

Crowley’s eyes snapped open all the way and he sat bolt upright, head spinning. His hand, still tangled in his scarf, locked on for dear life.

“A—Aziraphale?” he stammered, heart constricting in his chest. He could hear the fear in his voice and hated it, but he also hated the tenuous hope, the fleeting thought that maybe, after all that had happened, Aziraphale had somehow, miraculously, returned to him—

“I’m here, I’m here,” said an impossible voice, and a moment later something smooth and warm was being pushed into his free hand and that familiar aura was back. Crowley’s spinning vision cleared at last to show Aziraphale, handing him a spoon to go with the cup of tea he’d just pressed into his hand.

For a moment Crowley just stared at him in disbelief, soaking in his mere presence and the effortless nature of his movements, as though his very existence had never once been in question.

“Sorry; my back was cramping,” Aziraphale said apologetically. “And I thought you might want some tea when you woke up?”

Crowley blinked at him, his memories of the previous day settling into place. The hard knot in the pit of his stomach started unravelling, and when he looked up at Aziraphale and saw the look on his face—a mixture of reassurance, worry, and something like affection—he felt a warmth stir in his chest. He gave Aziraphale an uncertain smile and the angel positively beamed back at him. Crowley felt the last of his worry fade away as his own smile strengthened.

It hadn’t been a dream after all. He was in Heaven, and Aziraphale was too, and he was never going to have to feel that drowning grief ever again.

After a moment Crowley realised he’d been grinning stupidly at Aziraphale for a little too long, coughed awkwardly, and looked down at his hands, which were still holding the teacup and spoon Aziraphale had pushed into them.

“Ah, thanks,” he said, taking a sip.

“I’m working on some beans and toast as well,” Aziraphale said, bustling off in the direction of the kitchen. “They’ll be just a mo.”

Crowley adjusted his position on the sofa, turning so he could watch Aziraphale over its back. He idly stirred his tea as he watched Aziraphale flit back and forth in and out of view through the door to the kitchen.

It was an unbelievably comforting and familiar sight, and Crowley felt the warmth in his chest grow a little brighter.

It wasn’t until he moved to the table and started in on his beans, suddenly ravenous, that he recognised the feeling as happiness.

He was perfectly, utterly content, and, as he gazed at Aziraphale sitting across from him, more perfect than even Crowley’s memory had rendered him, he thought that he could stay like this forever.

After breakfast, Crowley detoured up to his room to change back into his suit and try to comb his hair into something more presentable. Though his interest in his appearance had waned considerably in recent years, he found himself unusually preoccupied with it today, straightening his cuffs and willing out the wrinkles. He even miracled up a pair of sunglasses, pushing them up into his carefully brushed hair. He neatly arranged the scarf Aziraphale had given him next, the soft material running smoothly under his fingers. He had expected it to clash with his suit, now that he was paying attention to his appearance, but, a little to his surprise, it actually went very well with his usual attire.

Smiling a little, Crowley headed back downstairs and leaned against the doorframe to the kitchen, watching Aziraphale drying off their plates.

“Need any help?” he asked.

“No, I’m just finishing…” Aziraphale half-glanced over at him, and then did a double take. “…up.” He gazed at Crowley for a long moment, the plate in his hand evidently quite forgotten. He let out a breath and gave Crowley a heartfelt smile. “You look absolutely lovely, my dear.”

Crowley felt a hint of a flush cross his cheeks, and he hastily pulled away from the support of the doorframe, busying himself with straightening his shirtsleeves even though they were already perfectly straight. To his relief, Aziraphale seemed to remember the plate in his hand and returned to drying it off.

“The Bentley outside,” Crowley said, “do you know if it runs?”

“It does, yes,” Aziraphale said, studiously continuing to wipe down the plate in his hand.

“I don’t suppose your heaven extends all the way to St James’s or the Ritz?”

“It does indeed,” Aziraphale said, and though he only moved onto drying the second plate, Crowley could hear the smile in his voice.

Emboldened, Crowley took a step forwards. “And I don’t suppose you’d be interested in getting a little fresh air this morning?”

“My dear,” Aziraphale said, finishing with the second plate and setting it carefully on top of the first in the appropriate cupboard, “do you even need to ask?”

 

~~***~~

 

“Oh, I missed you, too,” Crowley cooed to the Bentley, sliding into the driver’s seat with an intense grin plastered on his face. He ran his hand appreciatively over the steering wheel, evidently admiring the suppleness of the leather.

Aziraphale refrained from rolling his eyes as he got into the passenger seat. If anything, Crowley looked even more delighted as he settled further in, running a hand over the gear stick and slowly reacquainting himself with the much-beloved car that he hadn’t seen in nineteen years.

“Come on, old girl, let’s see what you’ve got,” Crowley said, almost tenderly turning his hand in midair. The car purred to life, the engine turning over smoothly.

“Oh, this _is_ Heaven,” Crowley purred.

After a moment’s thought, the Blaupunkt jumped to life as well, and a familiar melody of piano keys filled the car.

Crowley actually chuckled a little as Freddie Mercury’s voice joined the delicate piano notes.

Aziraphale gazed over at him. Crowley looked so delighted, sitting there in his car with that ridiculous smile plastered on his face. He saw Aziraphale looking and grinned at him as well, shamelessly. He reached up to pull his sunglasses out of his hair and carefully slid them onto his nose.

On the Blaupunkt, the piano notes suddenly doubled in intensity and the rest of the band crashed into the song.

 _“I’m a shooting star leaping through the sky like a tiger,”_ Freddie Mercury sang boldly, _“defying the laws of gravity_. _”_

“What do you say, angel, St James’s first?”

_“I’m a racing car, passing by like Lady Godiva—”_

Aziraphale remembered doing this same thing with that imagined Crowley of his, months ago, but this was so much _better_. He hadn’t realised before just exactly how much that imagined Crowley had fallen short of the real one.

“Anywhere you like, my dear,” Aziraphale told him.

Crowley’s grin grew, if anything, even broader, and then he looked back at the street as the gear stick jumped forward of its own accord and the Bentley swerved out into the road.

 _“I’m travelling at the speed of light,”_ Freddie Mercury sang from the stereo, _“I want to make a supersonic man out of you.”_

The Bentley barrelled out of the street and swung in a wide arc to make the first turn, showing no regard whatsoever for automotive safety. Aziraphale clung to the edge of his seat and thought giddily that he’d never been happier to have his life—afterlife?—soul?—put in danger.

_“Don’t stop me now, cause I’m having a good time. Don’t stop me—yes, I’m having a good time—”_

It was also about then that Aziraphale realised that no one else was driving on the road. In fact, there was no one else in sight at all—no pedestrians clogging up the pavement, no tourists wandering around snapping photos of everything within sight, not even a stray dog or pigeon.

The shopfronts were all brightly lit and welcoming, and the pavement was littered with signs, bicycles, and illegally parked cars, but all of the people had vanished.

Crowley seemed to realise this around the same time, because he let up on the accelerator, letting them coast along for a moment. “Hey, angel—er, why is there no one around?”

“Oh,” Aziraphale said, suddenly putting it together. He glanced over at Crowley, feeling his good mood falter. “It’s because you’re here.”

Crowley cast him a puzzled look.

“The heavens,” Aziraphale said by way of explanation. “They construct themselves as a projection of the inhabiting soul’s subconscious. Best I can tell, when you put more than one soul in a heaven, it shorts out the system. Inanimate objects stay the same and natural processes continue—it still rains, and the wind still blows—but anything animate just…disappears.” As he said it, he realised that, if he’d been doubting Crowley’s authenticity, this would have recommended him quite highly.

“Huh,” Crowley said.

_“I’m burning through the sky, yeah. Two hundred degrees, that’s why they call me Mr Fahrenheit—”_

“The subconscious, really?” Crowley asked.

“I think so,” Aziraphale said, making a mental note to never let Crowley anywhere near the adult bookshop across the road from his own shop.

“And your heaven didn’t—I don’t know—make itself into Alexandria? Didn’t you always say that was your favourite place on Earth?”

“Er,” Aziraphale said, briefly distracted as he underlined and highlighted his mental note. “I mean, that was quite a long time ago, and a lot of things have happened since.”

“But why—” Crowley’s voice stopped abruptly and he turned his attention back to the road. When Aziraphale, finishing drawing a number of large arrows to his mental note, ventured a glance over at him, he was surprised to see a hint of pink on Crowley’s cheeks.

Aziraphale coughed and made a show of looking over at the shopfronts.

On the Blaupunkt, Brian May took over for a guitar solo, smashing the strings with a frizzle of electric sound. _“Oh, burning through the sky, yeah—”_

The Bentley sped up again and before long they were streaking down the Mall. Crowley had never allowed himself to be slowed down by something as unimportant as traffic, but without even the pretence of a hindrance they made it to St James’s in record time.

Crowley swerved the Bentley up to the kerb and pulled her to a remarkably smooth standstill considering how tempting it must have been to just slam on the brakes.

 _“I don’t want to stop at all…”_ Freddie sang, voice abruptly cut short as Crowley pushed his door open.

“Well, come on, angel, I suppose we’ll have the place to ourselves!”

Relieved Crowley didn’t seem to be taking the utter lack of other people poorly, Aziraphale quickly fell into step beside him as they headed down one of the paths toward the pond. After a moment, he realised with some trepidation that it was the same path he and Not-Crowley had taken some months before.

Aziraphale hastily searched the path in front of them, feeling a sudden burst of horror when he saw the line of houseplants growing neatly beside the edge of the path. Aziraphale was fairly certain they had literally appeared there soon after he’d asked Not-Crowley what he’d done with his underperforming houseplants, to which his imagined Crowley had responded that he’d planted them here at St James’s.

The problem was that they were rather distinctive, and _this_ Crowley was certain to notice them and then want to know exactly why they were there.

Aziraphale cleared his throat loudly and cast his mind around quickly for something—anything—to distract his friend with. “Do you have any bread for the ducks?” he asked quickly. “Since no one will be around to sell us any?”

Crowley nodded and miracled a small loaf into his hand. “Here you go, angel—hang on, are those…?”

He’d seen the plants.

Aziraphale hastily took Crowley by the elbow and veered off the path, dragging the unFallen angel after him. “This way’s faster, come along, my dear.”

If Crowley thought this was at all strange, he didn’t say anything, allowing Aziraphale to lead him over a slight rise and through the grass until they were nearing the water’s edge.

Aziraphale was just slowing down, beginning to tear the bread in his hands, when he realised abruptly that this wasn’t going to work at all. Because of course there were no ducks.

Crowley seemed to reach the same conclusion around the same time, his pace slowing in time with Aziraphale’s. For a long moment they just stood there and looked out over the pond. The breeze chased a few ripples across its surface, but other than that there was no movement. It was eerily quiet, the only noise the sound of the wind rustling through the trees.

“Really should have seen that one coming,” Crowley said after a long moment. “Sorry about that, angel.”

“No, no, it’s not your fault,” Aziraphale said, wondering what he ought to do with the bread now.

“I mean, it kind of is,” Crowley pointed out, far too sensibly for Aziraphale’s liking. “You said two souls in a single heaven cancels out all of the animate life. It’s your heaven, so I’m the one causing the problem.”

“No,” Aziraphale said, perhaps a little sharper than strictly necessary. He took a fortifying breath and stamped out his disappointment. “You’re more than welcome here. The ducks were just going to be figments of my imagination anyway.”

“Sorry,” Crowley offered again, but Aziraphale just shook his head. He tossed the bread onto the ground. Maybe, if Aziraphale’s imagined life returned here at some point, a squirrel could eat it or something.

“It’s all right,” Aziraphale said, turning away from the lifeless pond. “Let’s go.”

They started back up the slight rise, moving in the direction of the Bentley. They walked past the row of houseplants again, but Crowley didn’t say anything.

“I suppose there’d be no wait staff at the Ritz either,” Crowley said after a moment, as they neared the Bentley. “We could ransack the kitchens, maybe?”

“None of it’s going to taste quite right anyway,” Aziraphale said, trying not to sound too bitter. He’d wanted to show Crowley that he could enjoy staying here with Aziraphale if he wanted, but instead he was just seeing more and more problems with the possibility.

“We’ll go back to the bookshop then,” Crowley said, seeming determined to find a bright side. “I’ll make something nice for lunch, how about that?”

The Blaupunkt played “The Show Must Go On” on the ride back, but it seemed too loud in the otherwise near-silence of the deserted Soho streets.

 

~~***~~

 

“That _is_ pretty cool, angel,” Crowley said, holding the silver mirror and tilting it experimentally in his hands, squinting at it.

Aziraphale had shown it to him after they’d returned from their disappointing trip to St James’s, explaining that this was how he’d kept an eye on Crowley. When Crowley had looked at it uncertainly—it did look very much like an ordinary mirror—Aziraphale had taken it from him and asked it to show him Bertrand Marley.

Now, the mirror showed Bert, sitting in a small office Crowley distantly recalled as being in the very rear of the pub, going through some paperwork.

“It shows any person or place on Earth?” Crowley queried, examining it more closely.

Aziraphale made a noise of agreement from his place in the kitchen. “I didn’t really try it out, but that’s the theory, yes. I made it using a minor sigil I found in one of my books.”

Crowley made an impressed sound and hefted the mirror in his hands, feeling its weight. “Do you realise how handy this is, though?” he pointed out. “We could spy on anyone we liked. I bet you we could make a fortune with this.”

“ _Crowley_ ,” Aziraphale admonished from where he was fetching them two cups of tea. Crowley had said that he really didn’t need any more tea, but Aziraphale had insisted, and not let him help make it either.

“I’m not saying I _will_ , I’m just saying I _could_ ,” Crowley protested, stilling his hands and peering down at Bert. “All I have to do is ask it to show me someone or some place, right?”

“I should think so.”

“Mirror, mirror, in my hands,” Crowley intoned dramatically, “who is the fairest of—er, all the lands?”

The mirror shimmered slightly and the image of Bert faded. Crowley saw his reflection looking back at him. He smirked.

“Hey, angel, it says I’m the fairest in the land, what do you think?”

Aziraphale, returning from the kitchen, gave him an exasperated expression that looked like it was supposed to be a scowl but he couldn’t completely smother a smile at the same time. “I think perhaps that was an invalid request,” he said, sliding a cup of tea in front of Crowley. “You would need to be more specific.”

“Mirror, mirror, in my hands,” Crowley tried again, “who is the fairest angel in the land?”

Again, the mirror gave an odd little shimmer but returned to being an ordinary mirror.

“Ha, fairest angel too,” Crowley said triumphantly. “I dunno, Zira, I like this mirror. It really understands me.”

“I don’t think it _understands_ subjectivity, my dear,” Aziraphale said kindly, sitting down with him at the table and stirring his tea.

“Then I must be _objectively_ the fairest angel in the land,” Crowley said smugly.

Aziraphale gave a little huff of laughter but didn’t contradict him.

 

~~***~~

 

“I’m really sorry about giving your books away, angel,” Crowley said, sounding very much like he was admitting to something highly illegal.

Aziraphale glanced over at where the unFallen angel was poking through the books lined up around the fireplace.

“I didn’t think you would be—er, coming back,” Crowley continued. “We could probably get them back from Harper if you wanted.”

Though that sounded precisely like something Aziraphale wanted to do, he knew that Harper would take equally good care of them, and it would be a bit rude at this point to ask him to return what had been a gift in the first place.

“I suppose…” Aziraphale said slowly, dragging the words out of himself like he was swallowing a necessary poison, “he could keep them…if he looks after them _very well_ …”

Crowley cast him a slightly surprised and slightly relieved look. “I mean, it does look like you have most of them up here anyway,” he said hopefully, turning back to the books. He tapped his finger along a few spines.

“It’s my original collection in the bookshop, too,” Aziraphale said. “From before it burned.”

Crowley made an impressed noise. “And Heaven really does just…pick up on your subconscious like that? That’s incredible.” He pulled one of the books off the shelf and opened it to a random page, flipping through it slowly. “I mean, the entire book is here! All of the text and everything.”

“It’s an automated system,” Aziraphale told him. “There’s a very complex layer of spellwork that makes it all run—you can read about it, if you like.”

“Hell never even _tried_ replicating anything this detailed,” Crowley said, running a hand down a page. “Though I suppose they didn’t really need to, eh?”

Aziraphale made a noise of agreement and Crowley snapped the book shut and slipped it back onto its shelf. He moved further along the bookshelves and paused near the row of slim black journals.

Aziraphale watched him a bit nervously, wondering what his reaction would be.

“Were you serious about letting me read them?” Crowley asked after a moment.

“Yes. If you want to, that is. I understand there are quite a few.”

“Well, we _are_ quite old,” Crowley pointed out, reaching out almost tentatively to touch one of the spines. Aziraphale saw him exhale, and he ran his hand carefully over the row of journals.

“I am _really_ sorry about burning them,” Aziraphale said; he’d already apologised for it once, but felt that it was something that needed repeated repentances. Crowley had been _furious_ with him.

“Don’t worry about it, angel,” Crowley said, and Aziraphale realised after a moment that he meant it.

Aziraphale was still wondering at how easily Crowley had forgiven him, and trying to work out what he could say next that would discreetly convey his gratitude, when Crowley stiffened slightly.

His hand fell from the journals and he took a step towards Aziraphale, eyes locked on the door to the cottage.

Aziraphale opened his mouth in confusion, but Crowley spoke over him.

“Someone’s here,” he hissed.

A moment later, there was a loud, authoritative knock on the cottage door.

Crowley and Aziraphale exchanged glances and both of them moved towards the door at the same time.

They both lurched to identical halts. Aziraphale motioned at Crowley to stay back while he answered it, but Crowley seemed to be gesturing the same thing to him.

“It’s _my_ heaven,” Aziraphale said quickly to him in an undertone. “They’ll be expecting _me_.”

“You don’t have your powers anymore,” Crowley hissed back. “It’s an angel, I can tell—”

“Fallen and Redeemed,” said a loud male voice from the other side of the door. “I bring summons.”

Crowley and Aziraphale exchanged nervous glances, and then Crowley moved forward and opened the door.

A tall, broad-shouldered angel stepped forward and, much to Aziraphale’s surprise, gave them both very slight bows. Then he straightened up, almost at attention, eyes on Aziraphale. “Fallen and Saved Aziraphale,” he said, and turned to Crowley. “Redeemed Crowley. I am Gedariah, and I bring summons from the choir of archangels.”

“Did Azrael send you?” Aziraphale asked, trying to draw the intruder’s attention back to him.

Gedariah’s eyes returned to Aziraphale. “Indeed. I am a dominion under her command.” Dominions were one step above cherubim in the angelic pecking order, meaning that Azrael had sent one of her highest-ranking subordinates.

“What are these summons?” Aziraphale asked before Crowley could.

Gedariah’s gaze swung back to the former demon. “They are for the Redeemed Crowley,” he said. “You are to accompany me immediately to an assembly of the archangels.”

“Whatever for?” Aziraphale demanded as Crowley paled a few shades.

“The archangels have discussed your situation and are on the brink of making a joint decision,” the dominion said smartly. “They have summoned the Redeemed Crowley to appear before them.”

“I’m not going,” Crowley said.

Gedariah seemed unruffled by this declaration. “You have no choice in the matter,” he said calmly. “I am to escort you.”

“I am not leaving,” Crowley said again, voice a little stronger now, “not unless you can guarantee that I’ll be coming back.”

Aziraphale cast Crowley a worried look. “I could come with,” he suggested.

Gedariah looked between them. “The summons is only for the Redeemed,” he said. “And I cannot guarantee your return, but I can guarantee your safety. Azrael has put that charge on me.”

“Then no,” Crowley said, folding his arms. “The archangels can come to me if they want to see me so badly.”

“I am to escort you to them, and escort you I shall. It may be in your best interests to comply.”

“What was all that just now about guaranteeing my safety?” Crowley said hotly.

Gedariah opened his mouth to reply—he still seemed completely unconcerned by the entire situation—but Aziraphale hastily moved towards Crowley and started dragging him a few metres further into their living room.

“One moment,” Aziraphale told the dominion as he pulled Crowley a little further away—not out of earshot, unfortunately, but far enough away that he didn’t feel quite so much like the dominion was looking down his nose at them.

“I’m not going,” Crowley told Aziraphale as they came to a stop near the far end of the sofa.

“I think you have to,” Aziraphale told him. If he was being honest with himself, he didn’t want Crowley to go either, but he was turning over what Crowley had told him about the angels he’d run into so far. “First of all,” Aziraphale said, “he’s a dominion. He’s going to get his way.”

Crowley opened his mouth to protest, but Aziraphale put his hand on his elbow. “Please, Crowley, just listen for a moment. You may have unFallen, but think what that must look like to them. This has never happened before.” He cast a glance at Gedariah, and Crowley followed his gaze; the dominion was standing right where they’d left him, looking around the cottage with interest.

“If they wanted you dead,” Aziraphale told Crowley in as quiet of a voice as he could muster, “they wouldn’t be summoning you.”

“Public execution?” Crowley suggested.

Aziraphale shook his head. “Heaven runs differently than Hell. If Azrael guaranteed your safety, then you’re safe. None of the archangels would break their word, and you said Azrael was the one who let you in in the first place.”

Crowley shifted uncertainly, still looking like he didn’t want to go but running out of good reasons not to.

“We need to know what the archangels are thinking,” Aziraphale told him. “They have a lot of control over the rest of Heaven. If you can get them to like you, you’ll be a lot safer in general.”

Crowley frowned. “But what if they don’t like me?”

“They will,” Aziraphale said, hoping it was true. Crowley didn’t look convinced by this declaration, so Aziraphale continued, “If they want to see you in person, then at least a few of them must like you already. Just don’t give them any reason to think you…I don’t know…unFell to become a spy for Below or something, and you should be fine.”

“I don’t want to leave you,” Crowley said.

Aziraphale looked up at him in surprise, and as their gazes met he saw the same surprise mirrored in Crowley’s serpentine eyes; then his expression shifted to horrified embarrassment as his cheeks flushed bright red.

“I mean,” he stammered quickly, looking away and raising one hand to scratch nervously at his ear, “I, ah, only just got here, after all, and I—”

Aziraphale tugged him into a quick hug, pulling Crowley as close as he could and telling himself that this was not a good-bye.

Crowley started to return the hug, but Aziraphale was already forcing them apart while he still had the willpower to do so. “Go,” he said. “I’ll put some tea on for when you get back.”

“Are you sure?” Crowley asked, and when Aziraphale met his eyes, he saw that Crowley was searching them.

“Yes, yes,” Aziraphale said, breaking the eye contact and busying himself with fussily adjusting the arrangement of Crowley’s scarf. He fought the urge to pull his friend into another embrace.

“I’ll come back,” Crowley told him, reaching up to take Aziraphale’s hands in his own. “I promise.”

Aziraphale sighed and nodded.

Crowley gave a tense nod, let go of Aziraphale’s hands, and walked back towards where the dominion waited.

“All right, let’s get this over with.”

Gedariah nodded. “Right this way.” He held his arm out, indicating that Crowley should precede him out of the cottage.

Aziraphale trailed after them.

In the front garden, Gedariah shook out his wings in preparation for flight.

Crowley glanced back at Aziraphale, his own wings melting into view. They were much as they had appeared in the mirror, except that all of the missing gaps had been filled in, the primaries Samkiel had torn out finally regrown.

As Crowley stood there in the garden, starlight in his wings and Heaven all around him, even with his slitted golden eyes and black suit, or maybe because of them…he looked absolutely divine.

“I’ll be back,” Crowley told Aziraphale again, and then the two angels pushed off, wings carving great swaths through the air, until they were high enough to simply vanish into the crystal blue sky.


	4. The Archangels

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you'd like a reference for the choirs of angels, you can find one here: http://improbabledreams900.tumblr.com/post/153023321878/the-hierarchy-of-angels-and-archangel-and

There were nine choirs of angels, each assigned to a space in the celestial hierarchy based upon the amount of power wielded by any given member of that choir. The six seraphim, which together constituted the highest choir, wielded an unbelievably vast amount of power, whereas the ordinary “angels” of the lowest choir, who didn’t even have a particularly engaging name to go by, could barely muster up a bog-standard miracle.

Crowley knew Aziraphale had begun his existence as a cherub, back when he guarded Eden, which put him in the exact centre of the hierarchy. He’d been demoted after the Fall of Man, which had admittedly been mostly Crowley’s fault, and had spent the rest of his days as a principality, a full two choirs below his previous rank. The choir between those two was that of the thrones, and Crowley had been among their number, so many thousands of years ago.

Hell’s organisational system was far more complicated and (unsurprisingly) hellish, based on a mixture of power reserves and desire for personal advancement. Crowley, who’d not been particularly interested in climbing the demonic chain of command—largely for reasons of self-preservation—had therefore held very little official status. But since the newly-unFallen Crowley seemed to have access to the same amount of intrinsic power as he’d had before and after his Fall, Crowley assumed he’d returned to being a throne of Heaven.

This put him two choirs below Gedariah and a solid four choirs below the archangels. While that might not have seemed too worrisome on first glance, the problem lay in _just how much_ more powerful any given choir was than the one directly below it. Because your average cherubim, it turns out, has access to exactly seven times more raw power than a throne, a throne seven times more power than a principality, and so on. God really did have a thing for sevens.

Which meant that, once all of those sevenfolds were multiplied together, any one of the seven archangels sitting in front of Crowley now wielded more raw power than him by a factor of seven to the fourth power, or _twenty-four hundred times_. Combined, in a toe-to-toe competition the archangels could have overpowered him over _sixteen thousand times_.

So Crowley felt a little justified in fixing his eyes firmly on the ground and trying to appear as non-threatening as possible.

“I must say,” drawled an all-too-familiar voice, “you are one person I didn’t expect to be seeing again.”

Crowley forced his head up reluctantly, focussing on the speaker. He’d last encountered Michael a little over nineteen years ago, when he’d allowed himself to be brought to Heaven under suspicion of having enchanted Aziraphale. The best lie Crowley had been able to come up with on short notice for allowing himself to be taken had been that he carried a message for Michael. By the time he’d arrived in Heaven and been duly taken to Michael, though, Crowley still hadn’t thought of anything he could say that might save his skin. And he was still focussing on buying time for Aziraphale to get away as it was, so he’d asked Michael about the most recent thing that had been on his mind, from an earlier conversation with Aziraphale: King Ludwig II of Bavaria. Understandably, Michael had failed to make heads or tails of that, and Crowley had been sent away to that horrible white room.

Crowley had cloaked himself in suaveness and forced confidence then, and he struggled to regain that composure now. The problem was, he kept remembering what had happened _afterwards_.

Crowley took a deep breath and looked up, casting his gaze around the archangels. He only recognised a few of them—Michael from his previous encounter, looking much like the paintings except with skin closer to bronze; Gabriel, who he’d been unlucky enough to encounter on Earth several times, and who always seemed to walk the line of androgyny; Azrael, appearing perfectly poised and calm; and the scrawny, harassed-looking Jerahmiel, who was in charge of overseeing Creation, and for whom Crowley had worked very briefly, right at the beginning.

Gedariah had led him to a sort of audience hall in the fifth circle that reminded Crowley quite strongly of the Hall of Mirrors at Versailles. Gold, stucco, and beads of glass seemed to cloak every surface, including the seven archangels’ heavily ornamented chairs, which were arranged in front of and around him in a semicircle shape.

“Honestly,” Crowley said, focussing his gaze around Michael’s collar, “I didn’t expect to be seeing you again either.”

A heavyset archangel on Crowley’s left who he didn’t know by name actually chuckled a little before she hastily broke it off with a cough, and Crowley focussed on keeping his breaths even. _Make them like you_ , he thought, remembering Aziraphale’s words. _Some of them already like me. I just need to work out which ones._ He flashed a winning smile and tried to relax his posture.

“I see your manners haven’t changed much,” Michael said dryly.

Crowley shrugged. “Yours either.”

The heavyset archangel sniggered and this time earned a glare from the archangel seated beside her, a rather handsome fellow with jet-black skin and an impressive amount of armour. The one who’d laughed quickly covered it up with another cough, and Crowley found he liked her.

“Your return to divinity,” said the archangel on Michael’s immediate left, a tanned woman with shocks of wavy black hair and a surprisingly kind expression that Crowley thought might have been Raphael, “has raised many questions, few of which have been answered. We were hoping you could shed some light on the subject.”

That sounded reassuringly like they didn’t want to smite him, so Crowley took a deep breath and tried to steady his nerves. He’d bluffed himself out of countless tricky situations in the past, though he was hoping the truth might suffice for this one.

“Like how exactly you came to be Redeemed,” the one with jet-black skin said. He was sitting quite comfortably in his gilded chair, but his hand was placed rather prominently on the pommel of his sword.

Crowley remembered Adam’s words. “I didn’t mean to unFall,” he said. “Or be redeemed, or whatever you call it—I didn’t even realise it was happening until the very end. It took a while to happen—years, I think. But all my feathers turned back to white. One by one.” He didn’t know that for certain, but that was how Adam had explained it to him, and he didn’t think the Antichrist had had any reason to lie to him. Not that he was going to drop Adam’s name anytime soon—the archangels might still see the Antichrist as a pawn of Below, even though Above had been just as prepared to manipulate him to bring about the Apocalypse.

“And what exactly were you doing, during this time that you…unFell, as you put it?” asked Michael.

Seven sets of eyes were on him, and even the heavyset archangel looked quite interested in Crowley’s answer.

Crowley, meanwhile, quickly fixed his gaze on the gleaming marble floor as he felt an unexpected heat rise to his cheeks. In all likelihood, his return to divinity was directly tied to Midfarthing and the strangely wonderful life he and Aziraphale had shared there, but he didn’t particularly feel like telling the archangels about that; it was none of their business.

Crowley scrambled to think of something else he could say, feeling Azrael’s cool gaze paradoxically hot on his collar as several of the archangels shifted in their chairs.

“Er, well, Aziraphale Fell,” Crowley said at last, deciding a vague version of the truth was his best policy, “and he and I had sort of…been friends, before, on Earth.”

There was some muttering at this, and the sound of someone leaning over in their chair to whisper something to their neighbour.

“And then he was mortal, and it…it just seemed wrong to leave him, so I…” Crowley kept his eyes fixed on the marble floor, “I, er…didn’t.”

There was a silence.

“You mean to say,” the dark-skinned archangel with his hand still on his sword said incredulously, “that our Father Redeemed you because you continued your association with a _Fallen angel?”_

“Er,” Crowley said, “yes?”

Voices broke out in whispers. He overheard Jerahmiel, off to his right, lean over to Azrael and whisper, “I _told_ you it had to do with that principality.” She waved him off.

“And what exactly are your intentions, now that our Father has seen fit to return you to His good graces?” Michael asked, the tiniest trace of hostility in his voice.

Crowley cast a glance at Azrael. “I’m not here to cause any trouble,” he said. “I’ve been visiting Aziraphale in his, er, personal heaven, and I’d like to continue doing that. That’s all I want.”

Michael frowned.

“What makes you think we’d continue to grant you access to a secure area?” the dark-skinned archangel asked, sitting forward in his chair so that the scabbard of his sword scraped audibly along the edge of the seat. “Access to one heaven means access to them all, and we cannot allow harm to come to the souls in our charge. As it is, only cherubim or members of higher choirs are allowed entrance—why should we make an exception for you?”

Crowley opened his mouth to plead his case, but Azrael beat him to it.

“Cherubim and higher, but also anyone I please. I shall remind you, Jophiel, that the guarding of my realm is my responsibility.”

The dark-skinned archangel—Jophiel—cast Azrael a slightly poisonous look. “Given how your methods have played out so far, dear sister, that may not be the best—”

“It is under control,” Azrael shot back.

Crowley looked back and forth between them in surprise. Was there some sort of security concern in the heavens? His first thought was that this was a division in the archangels’ unified facade he could potentially exploit, but it was quickly overwhelmed by his second, which was the worry that this security concern might pose a threat to Aziraphale.

“Calm yourself, Azrael,” said the angel Crowley thought was Raphael, placing an olive-skinned hand on Azrael’s elbow. “He speaks sense. Once one exception is made, others will want the same privilege.”

“But surely this _is_ an exceptional case?” argued Jerahmiel, coming unexpectedly to the rescue of his old employee. He waved a hand in Crowley’s direction. “No angel has ever recovered from Falling before.”

“It’s still a security threat,” Jophiel said. “Even more so that no one else has ever been Redeemed—he might Fall again at any minute.”

“He’s spent a lot of time on Earth,” Gabriel pointed out. “They’re crafty.”

“I’m not crafty,” Crowley protested. This earned him several extremely sceptical looks.

“‘Now the serpent was more crafty than any of the wild animals,’” quoted Jophiel. “Genesis, it seems, begs to differ.”

“Oh, come on,” Crowley said. “That was ages ago.”

“My point still stands,” Jophiel said, sitting back in his chair and folding his hands.

“As does mine,” Azrael said, casting a glance at Michael.

Michael huffed a sigh and straightened in his chair. He looked around at the archangels. “Has anyone’s opinion changed?” he asked.

Crowley looked around at the semicircle of chairs; each of the archangels shook their head.

Michael’s mouth twisted. “In that case…Crowley, Redeemed angel,” he said, sounding very much like speaking Crowley’s name was causing him physical pain, “You are permitted to remain in Heaven. There are conditions.”

Crowley took a deep breath, steeling himself.

Michael shot a look at Jophiel before continuing. “You are not permitted entrance to the first or seventh circles of Heaven, nor to any area restricted above your choir.” He glanced at Azrael. “Access to the realm of individual heavens will be under Azrael’s discretion. You are not permitted to carry out any designs we deem demonic, including temptations, _Serpent_. If at any time we have reason to believe you are disobeying or intend to disobey these rules, our position on this issue may be revised. Do you understand?”

Crowley felt relief wash over him. They were going to let him keep seeing Aziraphale. “Yes,” he said quickly. “Nothing demonic, no first or seventh heavens, sounds good to me.”

He saw Azrael give Michael a rather pointed look; Michael just shifted in his chair with a rather sour look on his face.

“Thank you,” Crowley ventured.

“You were Redeemed because it is the will of our Father,” Raphael said, tone certain. “He has a plan for you.”

 _I hope not_ , Crowley thought to himself, and then revised his opinion. Adam had said that Crowley had been the one to unFall himself, and that God hadn’t really had much of a direct hand in it, but if He had, then He had at least allowed Crowley to be reunited with Aziraphale, and for that he was grateful. For Raphael’s benefit, Crowley just nodded, trying to look like he was a willing pawn in God’s great cosmic chess game.

“Gedariah will see you back,” Azrael said, and a heartbeat later the dominion arrived at Crowley’s side.

“Right this way, Redeemed,” Gedariah said, holding his hand out to indicate the direction he wanted Crowley to walk.

Crowley followed his instructions, and as they left the presence of the archangels he felt himself lighten even further, the threatening intensity of their combined auras lifting.

Gedariah led him out of the audience hall and back into the perennial brightness of Heaven. As they walked down a short flight of marble steps, Crowley saw an alarmingly large group of angels clustered near the bottom. Several other angels—guards, it looked like—were keeping them held back, wings spread to block their passage.

They stirred when they saw Crowley, and a couple tried to push past the angelic guards. Crowley moved a fraction of a step closer to Gedariah.

“Infernal spy!” one of them shouted. “Lucifer will never take Heaven!”

“Go back to the Pit!” another shouted, and Crowley half-expected a piece of rotten produce to come sailing his way.

“You can’t fool us!” another shouted.

“Rabble-rousers,” Gedariah said disapprovingly as he kept walking, unfurling his wings slightly. “They should know better than to speak out against the archangels.”

“Oh?” said Crowley, who was remembering bleakly the last time he’d seen a crowd of discontented angels; most of their feathers had been black.

“It is a very short leap from questioning the archangels to questioning our Father’s ineffable plan,” Gedariah said as they left the audience hall behind and started down one of Heaven’s brilliant white brick roads. “We should pray that your Redemption does not lead to their Fall.”

“Oh,” said Crowley again, this time because he had a bad feeling that even indirectly causing angels to Fall might constitute ‘demonic designs’ in Michael’s mind.

A small party of angels was approaching them on the road, and at first it seemed that they might not recognise either of them, but then one of them caught Crowley’s eye and the entire group slowed.

“Redeemed one,” an angel near the front said in surprise, and there was awe in his voice. He came to a stop as Crowley and Gedariah drew near, and looked very much like he was considering bowing.

“Our Father salvaged his soul personally,” another one whispered, and a third said a quick prayer.

“Continue on your way, brothers,” Gedariah told them as the two of them neared.

None of the angels moved, and one even reached out towards Crowley as they passed.

They were hardly five metres further down the road when Crowley glanced over his shoulder and saw that they’d fallen in step behind him.

“They’re following us,” Crowley muttered to Gedariah, who looked slightly exasperated.

He came to a stop and Crowley followed suit. The dominion turned back to the group. “I am on official business with this throne,” he said. “I trust you all have duties that need attending to?”

One of the angels coughed.

“We seek only to follow,” one of them said, eyes fixed on Crowley, “and learn what message our Father has for us.”

“His message will be made clear in time, brothers, I assure you,” Gedariah said. “If He wishes you to hear it, then hear it you shall.”

A couple of angels near the front nodded.

“Now, please excuse us.”

Gedariah turned back around and continued walking. Crowley fell into step beside him, trying not to panic at the thought of a young Lucifer collecting bands of disgruntled, adoring angels.

When they had put enough of Heaven’s rolling emerald hills between them and the angels to know that they weren’t being followed—or at least not too closely—Crowley cast Gedariah a glance.

“What do they think I’m going to do?” he asked.

Gedariah shrugged. “You are Redeemed,” he said. “God has done so for a reason. They are waiting to see what that reason is.”

“What if I said God didn’t unFall me?” Crowley asked.

Gedariah cast him a peculiar look. “He is the only one who can,” he said, and there was no doubt in his voice. “Who else would have?”

Crowley cast his gaze on a nearby grove of spruce trees, their needles gold and sparkling like precious gems. “I dunno,” he said. “Maybe we Fall and unFall ourselves?”

Gedariah gave him a long look, and Crowley didn’t meet his eye. “Everything works according to His plan,” he said at last. “If I were you, I would not speak too loudly about defying the plan, Redeemed one, if you wish to remain Redeemed for long.”

Crowley grunted agreement.

A few more small groups of angels passed them as they continued back to the third heaven, some of them glaring at Crowley and calling the occasional jeer or challenge while others whispered that this was the Redeemed one, whom God Himself had touched. Gedariah convinced them all to carry on their way without too much trouble.

It wasn’t long before the trees around them turned into silver saplings and Crowley began to recognise his surroundings; they were near the gate to the individual heavens.

“I’m free to come and go as I please?” Crowley asked. “The guards at the gate will let me in?”

“Yes,” Gedariah said. “Azrael has decreed it, and so it shall be.”

“Do you think those…other angels will cause trouble?” he asked. “The ones that don’t like me very much, I mean.”

Gedariah’s expression grew pensive. “They would be very foolish to attack you once word has spread of the archangels’ decision. If you wish to have an escort, speak to the guards at the gate and one will be provided.”

“Thanks,” Crowley said, and meant it. He was beginning to feel grateful Aziraphale had insisted he go speak with the archangels in the first place.

When they were nearing a hill Crowley recognised as being just before the gate, Gedariah came to a stop and turned to Crowley. “It has been an honour escorting you, Redeemed,” he said calmly. “May God’s will shine through you.”

“Er,” Crowley said, and extended his hand. “Same to you.”

Gedariah seemed a little surprised at the gesture, and it took him a couple of seconds to work out that he was supposed to shake Crowley’s hand.

“And you don’t have to call me ‘Redeemed,’” Crowley said. “It’s kind of weird.”

Gedariah frowned at him. “Then what shall I call you?”

“Crowley,” he suggested.

Gedariah’s frown deepened. “Surely not. That is a demon’s name.”

Crowley half-raised his hands in exasperation as they resumed their walk towards the gate. “Well, I used to be a demon, didn’t I?”

“If you wish to be known by something else,” Gedariah said, “then I suggest you pick something more fitting for an angel.”

“Hmph,” said Crowley, who’d already changed his name twice and quite liked this one, thank you very much.

At the gate, Gedariah informed the guards that Crowley was to be allowed passage and they nodded smartly and stepped aside. They didn’t open the inner silver gate this time, and after a moment Crowley realised they expected him to open it himself.

The silver bars were cool against his hands, and he saw that they were engraved with tiny glyphs. Whatever they said, they must not have affected him, because the gate swung open soundlessly under his hands.

He nodded back in Gedariah’s direction as he closed the gate behind him. “Thanks,” he said again. “See you around.”

Gedariah gave him a grave nod, and then Crowley turned back, shook out his wings, and started towards the edge of the white platform.

 

~~***~~

 

“They want me to change my name, angel,” Crowley complained.

It had been several days since the archangels’ pronouncement, and he’d ventured outside of Aziraphale’s heaven exactly once, in order to fly down to Earth, tell a rather concerned Bert and Harper that everything was completely fine, and return with as much food as he could carry. The imagined or miracled stuff just wasn’t up to par.

“Do you want to change it?” Aziraphale asked diplomatically from where he was seated at the table sipping some genuine Earl Grey and looking far too pleased about it.

“No,” Crowley said. “I’ve had it for six thousand years. It would take centuries to even get used to a new one.”

Aziraphale hummed agreement and started poking around in a package of biscuits Crowley had bought. “You could go by your original name,” he suggested as he liberated a biscuit from its plastic prison. “Your angelic one, I mean. If you wanted.”

Crowley wrinkled his nose. “Not in a million years. I hated that one.”

“Really?” asked Aziraphale, who Crowley was fairly certain he had never even told his original name to.

“Besides,” Crowley said, “I’m nothing like I was back then. I’m not…not that angel anymore.”

Aziraphale made a noise of agreement and took a bite of his biscuit.

“I wonder if I could just tack something onto the end of mine,” Crowley mused. “Crowliel, maybe?” He wrinkled his nose again. “That sounds awful, doesn’t it?”

Aziraphale finished savouring his bite of biscuit and looked over at where Crowley was leaning against the back of the sofa, looking rather worried.

“It’s worse in Hebrew,” Aziraphale said apologetically.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” asked Crowley, who hadn’t brushed up on his Hebrew in several millennia, and didn’t know all of the roots anyway.

“The translation would be ‘roll of God,’” Aziraphale said calmly. He considered. “Possibly ‘carol of God,’ or ‘chromium of God,’ depending on how you spell it.”

 _“Carol of God?”_ Crowley repeated incredulously.

“Or roll of God,” Aziraphale replied calmly, and took another bite of his biscuit.

“Suppose we’re staying with ‘Redeemed One’ for now,” Crowley muttered. “I’d say they could call me the Serpent, but that would probably just convince them I’m up to something.”

Aziraphale held up a hand and Crowley waited for him to finish swallowing his bite of biscuit. “You could combine them,” he suggested. “‘Serpent of God’ would be…let’s see…something like Nahashiel. ‘Redeemed of God’…that one’s trickier…Liefdotch…Liefdochiel? Leafdotiel? Or possibly…what’s that other one, again? Shnap—Shnapdahiel? Shnipdiel? Shinpdahiel?”

Crowley stared at him. “I think I’ll stick with ‘Redeemed,’ thanks.” He leaned over and tugged a biscuit free for himself. “Roll of God,” he muttered.


	5. What Ought to Be

“‘ _What did the astronaut see on the cooker?’”_ read the slim black journal in Crowley’s hands, the one with the carefully-written _2_ in the upper right-hand corner of the cover. Crowley ran a finger lightly over the edge of the pages, still hardly able to believe he was holding it in his hands.

 _“‘An unidentified frying object,’”_ the text answered itself. _“‘A frying what?’ asked the shaft of pure white light, a little testily. ‘Principality, please refrain from eating while I am instructing you.’”_

 _“‘Right, right,’”_ the text continued. _“‘The moon. Do continue. I know you’re very down-to-Earth about these sorts of things.’”_

Crowley chuckled and looked up from the journal for a moment, searching for Aziraphale. Since he was tucked away on their cottage’s sofa and the last thing he’d heard from Aziraphale was that he was going to organise some books in his bookshop, he stretched out his awareness instead of casting his eyes around, searching for his friend’s aura.

And there it was, just as it had been the last twenty times today Crowley had felt for it, a reassuringly static presence in this new life of his.

Satisfied that Aziraphale was perfectly all right and within hearing distance of a well-projected shout, Crowley turned back to the journal and settled in for a good long read of a journal he had been utterly convinced he would never hold in his hands.

 

~~***~~

 

As the days compounded in which Crowley didn’t either vanish into thin air or leave of his own volition, Aziraphale felt himself settle into a sort of peace.

Crowley, as far as he was aware, hadn’t shed a tear since that night on the sofa, and if anything he seemed to need good reason to _not_ give Aziraphale the most blinding smiles he’d ever been graced with. Crowley seemed happy, and not at all like he wanted to leave anytime soon, and that was more than Aziraphale could have hoped for.

He’d started reading the journals Aziraphale had written and then rewritten, and Aziraphale, feeling that Crowley ought to have some privacy while he did it, busied himself in the bookshop, rearranging his books and sweeping the dust off the shelves. There wasn’t much dust, but Aziraphale swept it off anyway.

Crowley also seemed to be relatively happy with his new status as an angel, all things considered; Aziraphale knew he had deeply disliked Hell, and as long as Heaven didn’t try ordering him around, Crowley seemed content with his lily-white wings and the ability to smite demons (“Bet that would make Hastur look twice, ha!”).

Where Aziraphale’s heaven was concerned, Crowley had drawn the line of what he would tolerate at imagined or miracled food, which hadn’t surprised Aziraphale all that much. Ever since he’d tried the cake Crowley had brought, he’d realised just how inferior its ethereal counterparts were. Earth’s food had been a common indulgence for both of them, so Aziraphale tried to hide his delight whenever Crowley returned from a quick trip to Earth with a bundle of groceries.

Now that the archangels had given their word that Crowley would be allowed safe passage, Aziraphale felt his anxiety over Crowley going back to Earth ease. He still had the mirror, in case something went wrong, but he made a point not to use it anymore; there was a line where it became rather like spying, and it wasn’t as if Aziraphale didn’t trust Crowley to successfully make it to the grocer’s and back.

And Crowley always _did_ come back, with food and news of Midfarthing. Bert’s wedding was steadily approaching, still two months out, and Harper, it seemed, was teasing him relentlessly about it.

Apparently Crowley’s frequent appearances and disappearances were unnerving many of the villagers as well, to comic effect. Bert and Harper seemed to be under the impression that he had had some sort of religious experience while abroad (“not far from the truth, really,” Crowley relayed cheerfully), while Oscar the postman seemed to think he had fallen in love (“dunno where he got _that_ idea from,” Crowley said, apparently completely serious) and Faye Uphill was spreading around that he’d fallen in with a group of happy-go-lucky drug addicts (“I must say, that one’s my favourite.”).

“I suppose the truth is out of the question?” Aziraphale asked one day as Crowley set about making dinner.

Crowley shrugged and continued slicing up tomatoes. “I wouldn’t be opposed to it—I think Harper still misses you a little, actually, and your bibliophilic knowledge, but I don’t know how to tell them in a way that would make them believe me and not just try to send me to the loony bin.”

Aziraphale nodded; he had a point. He _did_ miss Midfarthing, though—the real Midfarthing—more than he’d thought he would. Sometimes he went and talked to his imagined Bert or Harper when Crowley was visiting their earthly counterparts, but it was now more painfully obvious than ever that they were just copies, mere projections of their real selves.

It was always strange, when Crowley left; if Aziraphale was standing outside or near an open window or door when he went, the first indication he had that Crowley had crossed some sort of threshold was that all of the birds started singing. And then his entire heaven came to life.

Outside his Soho bookshop, cars started rolling by and pedestrians appeared, shopping bags hanging off their arms as they chatted with each other or passed by busily, umbrellas stuffed under their arms. In Midfarthing, birds appeared, flitting over the flowerbeds or sitting on the postbox, wingtips flashing in the light. The occasional motorist or bicyclist passed by on Somerset Lane, and it seemed as though the entire world had come alive after a long winter.

All of which was ridiculous, of course; Aziraphale had spent enough time in his bespoke paradise to know that the veneer of perfection was just that—a veneer. And even though all of the birds fell silent and Aziraphale’s imagined neighbours melted away when Crowley returned, he knew it was a small price to pay.

It was still a little sad, though, watching his world grow still in order to allow Crowley to step foot in it. He could tell it didn’t quite sit right with Crowley, either, though the unFallen angel did his best to hide it. But it was painfully obvious that he wanted to take Aziraphale to St James’s and the Ritz, and with distractions beyond their cottage and the bookshop limited, they were very restricted in the number of things they could whittle their days away doing indoors.

“Oscar’s switched up his moustache again,” Crowley said, pulling his mobile out of his pocket and swiping at its surface. Evidently communications technology had advanced quite a bit during the eighteen or so years they’d spent in Midfarthing, progressions that seemed to delight Crowley to no end. One of the handier advancements was the integration of a camera _into_ the mobile phone (“But why? It’s hardly like you can take a photograph while speaking to someone,” Aziraphale said, perplexed), a feature Crowley was taking full advantage of.

“Here, take a look,” Crowley said, handing Aziraphale the slim black mobile. Aziraphale squinted down at its glossy surface; there indeed was Oscar, smiling a little confusedly, moustache bristling and full, speckled with grey now.

“Do you know how his garden’s doing?” Aziraphale asked; he and the postman had liked to discuss the latter’s flower garden, which Aziraphale had once helped him win a contest with.

“I’ll ask next time,” Crowley promised, taking the mobile back from Aziraphale and swiping across its surface several more times. “I think I took a picture of Mara, too, she’s quite pregnant now…”

He found what he was looking for and handed the mobile back to Aziraphale.

“Harper’s really over the moon about it,” Crowley relayed to him. “He showed me the nursery; sounds like Bert helped paint the walls. Of course then Mara went and painted clouds and kites all over them.”

“Do you have a photograph of that too?”

Crowley leaned over to gently tug the mobile out of Aziraphale’s hands again. “Let me check…” He spent a few seconds swiping back and forth. “Ah, sorry, doesn’t look like it. I’ll get one next time, promise.”

“It’s all right,” said Aziraphale, who’d been more curious than anything.

“No, no, it’s no bother,” Crowley said quickly. “I can take a few of your books too if you like—the ones Harper has, that is. So you can make sure he’s looking after them properly.”

“He won’t think that’s strange?” asked Aziraphale, who thought someone taking photographs on something as preposterous as their mobile was likely to draw a large number of raised eyebrows.

“Eh, I’m sure he won’t mind,” Crowley said. “I did give them to him, after all.”

Aziraphale hummed agreement.

Crowley stopped swiping and looked down at his mobile for a moment. “Hey, angel, how’s this for an idea?” He looked up at Aziraphale and cocked an eyebrow, setting his mobile down on the table. “What if I go to the real St James’s, nick some of _their_ ducks, and then bring them up here and put them in _your_ St James’s?” He raised his hands a little, palms up, as though expecting applause.

Aziraphale stared at him. “You want to steal _ducks?”_

“Well,” said Crowley, making an admirable attempt to not blush, “the park here’s a little lonely, isn’t it? Could do with some livening up. If we can’t have imagined ducks when both of us are here, then how about we have real ducks? Do you reckon I could sneak them past the gate guards?”

“Crowley,” said Aziraphale, a little sternly, “you are not stealing ducks.”

“I don’t see why not,” harrumphed Crowley, sitting back in his chair and picking his mobile back up.

“They’re _ducks,”_ said Aziraphale, who felt this was somehow morally wrong even though he privately thought that it was actually a rather good idea. The image of him and Crowley feeding ducks at St James’s again was extremely tempting.

“Don’t suppose you’ll let me kidnap some Ritz waiters either?” Crowley asked, fiddling with something on his mobile.

“No,” said Aziraphale, who felt on safer ground where this proposal was concerned. “Do not kidnap anyone.”

Crowley mumbled something that sounded an awful lot like “just suck all the fun out of life, why don’t you,” and returned to poking at his mobile.

“What _are_ you doing on that thing?” asked Aziraphale.

“Checking the weather,” Crowley said. “Back home.”

“Oh?” said Aziraphale, struggling to not read too much into ‘home’ not being where Crowley currently was. “Why?”

“I was thinking about popping back down again quick,” Crowley said, poking at his mobile and frowning. “The wi-fi up here is really temperamental.”

“Whatever for?” Aziraphale asked in as calm a voice as he could muster, struggling to mask his disappointment. Crowley had gone down to Earth just earlier this morning, and he seemed to be doing it more and more frequently.

“Well,” said Crowley, evidently finding whatever he was looking for on his mobile, “I was thinking of hopping down to swing by the Ritz.”

“Oh,” said Aziraphale, who had eaten at the Ritz exactly once in the last nineteen years, and sorely missed it.

“I was going to see if I could convince them to put some of those cakes in a takeaway box,” Crowley continued, pressing a button on his mobile to darken the screen and then stretching back in his seat as he slipped it into his trouser pocket. “I bet I can bring them around to my way of thinking.”

Aziraphale gave him a tentative smile. “You’ll be back soon?”

“Before you know it,” Crowley agreed, standing up. “Any preferences?”

It took Aziraphale a moment to realise he was asking about the Ritz cakes. “Cream cake, of course,” he said. “And those cucumber sandwiches, if they have them.”

“Right-o, angel,” Crowley said cheerfully, materialising a pair of sunglasses out of thin air and sliding them onto his nose. He hesitated for a fraction of a second and then leaned over awkwardly and gave Aziraphale a bizarre little pat on the shoulder. “I’ll be back before you know it,” he said, and then started towards the door.

A few seconds later, the birds started singing.

 

~~***~~

 

“Donnie ambushed me when I was at the grocer’s,” Crowley said by way of explanation as he plunked the bag of produce down onto the cottage’s kitchen table, happy to be relieved of their weight. “Once she got going, she was hard to stop. I tried to escape; you’ve got to believe me.”

“Of course, my dear,” Aziraphale said, poking a hand into the bag of groceries curiously.

“Apparently the wedding’s going to be quite the affair,” Crowley continued, pulling out a bottle of wine and showing it to Aziraphale for his inspection. “Sounds like the entire village is going to pitch in. Harper’s already planning the catering, and he has grand aspirations for the cake, but whatever they are he’s keeping mum about it.”

Aziraphale nodded approvingly at the bottle of wine and Crowley set it down on the table. “The ceremony will be at the church, of course. Sounds like they’re working out a good deal on the flowers, too, to keep costs down.”

“Sounds nice,” Aziraphale said, and Crowley paused when he detected a slightly forced quality to his friend’s voice. “Wish I could be there.”

“Oh, no, sorry,” Crowley said quickly, backpedalling as he realised the imprudence of filling Aziraphale in on the details an event he wouldn’t be able to attend. “I didn’t mean—”

“It’s all right,” Aziraphale said, picking up the wine and making a show of inspecting the label.

Crowley looked at him wordlessly, mind flashing forward to the day of Bert and Donnie’s wedding. It would doubtlessly be a day of celebration and cheer, but he would have to slip away early, before the wine and dancing started. He would need to apologise to Bert later and offer some excuse, hopefully one that conveyed his genuine regret. And then he would sit and show Aziraphale the pictures on his mobile, because it seemed that flat photographs were the best that Crowley could do to bring the real world to his angel. Crowley had already made a point of ferrying as much food as he could carry up to Heaven, always trying to think of what he could bring next that might cheer Aziraphale up a little, or make up for the fact that Crowley’s mere presence drove all animate life from his world.

He could tell Aziraphale missed the villagers, and had tried bringing them alive himself, through relayed news and photos, but it hadn’t been enough. It seemed now that there was nothing he could do that would properly transform this ghostly Midfarthing and Soho into the brilliant bustle of life, colour, and creativity that only genuine humanity could provide.

“No,” Crowley said. “It’s not all right.”

Aziraphale shot him a surprised look.

“You should be there,” Crowley said, and even as he formed the thought in his head, he knew he deeply believed it. “At the wedding. You ought to be there.”

Aziraphale gave him a slightly perplexed smile. “I can’t, my dear—you know that. I could watch, in the mirror—”

“It’s not the same,” Crowley interrupted. “You deserve to be there, in person.” _By my side_ , Crowley added silently. _When the wine comes out and the dancing starts, I want you right there with me._ “It’s not right for you to be trapped up here.”

Aziraphale’s smile faltered and he looked down at the wine bottle in his hands. “I don’t see what can be done about it,” he said. “I _am_ dead, you know. I don’t think…” His voice started losing volume, eyes fixed on the wine label. “I don’t think there’s anything either of us can do about that.”

Crowley frowned at him, unhappy with his friend’s change in body language but determined to try to find a way forward. “We don’t know that,” he said, keeping his voice as optimistic as possible. “What’s being dead mean, anyway?”

Aziraphale looked up at him, and a distinctly suspicious look crossed his face. “What do you mean?”

“So you’re dead,” Crowley said. “But you died a human, right, which means the only thing that really died was your physical body. You’re just completely ethereal now, yeah?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale affirmed slowly, the suspicious look deepening on his face.

“But there’s nothing that says you _can’t_ exist on Earth,” Crowley said. “If we could just find a way to get you to Earth, and to bring you into the physical plane—what would you think of that?”

Aziraphale’s face was a mix of genuine interest and hopelessness. “I don’t think it’s possible, Crowley,” he said. “You’re talking about breaking out of Heaven. It can’t be done.”

“And how would you know that?” Crowley asked. “I’m sure there’s some way—”

“I tried. There’s not,” Aziraphale said, and it took Crowley several seconds to register what he’d said.

“Sorry?”

“I tried,” Aziraphale repeated, moving his gaze back down to the tabletop. “When you were—that first year, after I died. I couldn’t find a way to get you a message, so I thought maybe if I could get to Earth, I could deliver one in person.” He risked a glance up at Crowley, and the former demon saw something shift behind Aziraphale’s brilliant blue eyes. “I looked into every way I could think of to get back to Earth, but there was always a catch. On…every single one.” The way he said _every single one_ was particularly ominous.

“What sort of catch?” Crowley asked, trying not to think too much about what Aziraphale had just implied.

The former angel shrugged noncommittally. “Breaking through the gate that guards the individual heavens, first off, and then major sigils I can’t work, getting down to Earth without wings, being trapped ethereally once I get there…”

“Hang on,” Crowley said. He put a hand on the top of the wine bottle, drawing Aziraphale’s attention to himself. “You worked all of this out to try to find a way to reach me, right?”

Aziraphale avoided his gaze and nodded.

“But that’s not what we’re trying to do this time,” Crowley pointed out. “Because _I’m_ already here.”

Aziraphale looked up at him.

“You said there were major sigils you couldn’t work—but I’m an angel,” Crowley said eagerly. “ _I_ can work them. I bet we could find a way to get through that gate, and you might not have wings to fly down to Earth but _I_ do. I dunno what to do about you being ethereal once we get there, but I’m sure we can think of something!”

Aziraphale was staring at him in astonishment, and slowly his expression was shifting to something that might have been hope.

“There are two of us this time,” Crowley said, moving his hand from the top of the wine bottle to Aziraphale’s wrist. “I bet we could do it. And if we made it back to Midfarthing, Heaven wouldn’t be able to find us, if they decide to go after us.”

“You…want to break me out of Heaven,” Aziraphale repeated slowly, “so I can go to a _wedding?"_

“Not just that,” Crowley said persuasively, waving his free hand. “St James’s. The Ritz. We’ll have to make up one hell of a story for the villagers as to how you’ve miraculously come back to life, but maybe I can work out a memory spell or something.”

The look Aziraphale gave him was incredulous. “You’re serious.”

“Perfectly,” Crowley said. “Not that it’s not nice and all here, but, I dunno…there’s not much to do, is there?” Aziraphale’s expression shifted imperceptibly and Crowley hastily amended, “Not that I wouldn’t be completely okay with staying, of course, but if we have the choice…” He let himself trail off. “Well, what do you think, angel?” he asked a little nervously.

If it came to a decision between staying here with Aziraphale and all the company and fine food Midfarthing and London could afford, Crowley knew it really wouldn’t be much of a competition in the end. He’d spent enough time on his own this last year to know that he’d be utterly miserable without Aziraphale, but he was hopeful it might not be an either/or situation, and he thought Aziraphale might appreciate the opportunity to have his cake and eat it too.

Aziraphale was silent for a long moment, and then he gave the sort of sigh that said _what the hell_ and looked over at Crowley. He gave a little shrug and a hint of a genuine smile graced his face. “Let’s break out of Heaven.”


	6. The Magician's Apprentices

They started with the gate to the individual heavens.

“There are two guards stationed there,” Crowley recalled. “Once we’re through, they’ll probably raise the alarm unless we can manage to knock them out, so we’ll have limited time after that. I wonder if they change guards or something—we could stake it out—”

Aziraphale stood, raised a finger, and headed off in the direction of the back room of the bookshop without saying a word.

“Aziraphale?” asked Crowley, who was wondering if he’d said something wrong.

A moment later, Aziraphale reappeared and unrolled several very large sheets of paper on the bookshop table. The top one was a map depicting the edge of the individual heavens and a great deal of the rest of the third heaven, complete with annotations. Crowley stared at it in disbelief.

“The guards have forty-hour shifts,” Aziraphale informed him calmly. “There are sentries too, at guard posts.” He pulled away the first sheet of paper, revealing a second one beneath it. This one was filled with tiny circles, each labelled with a miniscule word in Aziraphale’s perfect copperplate handwriting. They seemed to be radiating from a central point, a circle which Crowley saw read ‘Soho.’ There were some squares picked out from the circles, as well as the gate. The piece of paper was almost full.

“You can pass between the individual heavens,” Aziraphale continued, “through invisible doors. That’s how I got around without wings.” He ran a hand over the map, marking a route from the bubble labelled ‘Soho’ to the gate, swerving around one of the squares in the process. “This is the most direct route. Here are the sentry posts.” Aziraphale pointed at the squares. “They’re sort of like towers, with the sentry at the top and a locked door at the bottom that I think leads to a supply room. The sentries have forty-hour shifts too, and they exchange places pretty smoothly. If we tried to fly out, they’d notice. If we go through the individual heavens on foot, we’ll be able to make it to the gate undetected. I’ve done it before.”

Crowley stared at the map before him speechlessly. The sea of circles was unbelievably large, and when he leaned forward to inspect it more closely, he could read even more of the tiny words in the circles. There must have been thousands of them. “You…made this?” he asked in disbelief.

Aziraphale shifted a little on his feet. “I said I tried to get a message to you.”

Crowley looked up at Aziraphale with something like horror. He imagined Aziraphale, up here all alone, drawing this map circle by tiny circle, hoping he might be able to find a way to reach Crowley—

“I’m sorry,” Crowley said, and truly meant it.

Aziraphale shrugged and flipped the sheet of paper over. “Once I realised I couldn’t get through the gate—there’re glyphs on it, and I couldn’t get a good look at them but I bet they at least restrict access to angels, if not to specific choirs—I decided mapping the individual heavens was about all I _could_ do.”

He pointed to the back of his hand-drawn map, which featured a second map, this one showing buildings, rolling hills, lines of trees, and a complicated complex with tiny sigils on it. “This is the second heaven, where they kept you before. I only have maps of the second and third heavens, but I did a recce on all of these places back when I was figuring out how to rescue you.”

He pointed at several more points on the map, but Crowley couldn’t drag his gaze away from Aziraphale. “These are some of the edges of Heaven, the ones with the fewest patrols that go by, so if we wanted to get down to Earth, I’ve got a half-dozen options right here. Or you could do more reconnaissance, I suppose, since you can move around Heaven freely.”

“Aziraphale,” Crowley said, and the former angel came to a stop at last. “This is incredible. Really.”

Aziraphale cast him a look, and Crowley was surprised to see that he looked nervous. “I tried my best, to get you a message, I really did.”

“I know,” Crowley said, still grappling with the idea of Aziraphale working tirelessly to reach him while Crowley made virtually no effort to do the same. “Thank you.”

Aziraphale still looked unsettled, but he moved his gaze back to the map. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be of much use then, but maybe it’ll come in handy now.”

“I think it will,” Crowley said, and opened his mouth to apologise again for not realising Aziraphale was trapped up here earlier. He never got that far, though, because at that moment there was a rather large commotion and three people who could only be described as violently anachronistic stumbled around the corner of one of Aziraphale’s bookcases.

The one in front, a man with a rather fine russet dress coat and remnants of what looked like powder in his hair, staggered to a surprised halt, eyes finding Aziraphale.

The two men directly behind him only narrowly avoided a collision; one of them was wearing a sharp suit with a satin waistcoat and the other a tight-fitting cobalt military jacket, thigh-high riding boots, and a red sash. Both had dark, slightly mussed hair, though the one in the suit was particularly short and looked vaguely familiar to Crowley.

The newcomer in the blue jacket positively beamed when he saw Aziraphale. “Magician!” he said in delight, moving forward and giving Aziraphale’s hand an enthusiastic shake. “We found you at last!”

Crowley looked back and forth between the two of them, utterly lost.

“—just slow down,” came another voice, this one slightly older, as a fourth figure stumbled around the corner of the bookcase. He was wearing what looked like armour and a toga, and there was a crown of laurels in his hair.

“ _What_ is going on?” Crowley demanded, swinging his head back around towards Aziraphale in the hopes that maybe he wasn’t the only one who’d suddenly gone barking mad and started hallucinating.

The man shaking Aziraphale’s hand glanced at him, and for a moment he seemed just as surprised as Crowley.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said, with the air of someone not completely certain the two people he is currently introducing ought to have ever met in the first place, “this is Ludwig the Second. Of, er, Bavaria. Ludwig—”

“Mein Gott,” Ludwig said, eyes growing round. He looked back and forth between Crowley and Aziraphale, and then back to Crowley. “You’re his _Richard!”_

Crowley blinked at him, perplexed. “No, I’m—”

“He found you!” Ludwig continued, sounding amazed.

Crowley looked helplessly back at Aziraphale, only to find that the former angel had blushed a rather alarming shade of pink.

“It’s not like that,” he protested weakly.

“I’d say so,” Ludwig said, moving closer to Crowley and giving his hand an enthusiastic shake, peering at his face with interest. “He seems real enough to me.”

Aziraphale, if possible, blushed even darker. “That’s not what I—”

“Pleased to re-make your acquaintance,” the short man in the suit said, moving forward to shake Aziraphale’s hand as well.

“Sorry about barging in,” offered the man in the russet coat, who had a rather strong New York accent. “Didn’t realise this was your heaven.”

“Give the magician some space,” the Roman grumped, moving forward and pushing the other two out of the way a little, straightening his toga importantly.

“What are you all doing here?” Aziraphale asked, sounding perplexed as he looked back and forth amongst them. “I thought I took you all back to your heavens?”

“Ah, well, that was a bit boring, wasn’t it?” said the short man. “Once we realised what had happened—who wanted to stay?”

“You said my Richard was out here, somewhere,” Ludwig said. “So I went looking for him.”

Crowley, still hopelessly confused, kept his eyes on Aziraphale, but he looked just as puzzled himself. “But how did you get out?” he asked. “Those doors are hard to find—it should have been impossible—”

“That they are,” agreed the American in the russet coat. “I didn’t think I’d ever find one, but then someone opened one for me! And once we had Harry looking, he figured them out in ten minutes!”

Aziraphale blinked at him. “What? Who opened the first door?”

The American wrinkled his nose. “A rather confused Polish woman, I believe, but someone else had gone through her heaven and left a bunch of the doors open, and she had managed to find another one.”

A slightly alarmed look crossed over Aziraphale’s face. “Oh dear. When was this?”

The American shrugged. “Five, six months ago?”

“Twenty-seven weeks,” Ludwig confirmed.

“Hang on a minute,” Crowley said loudly, still very confused, turning his attention back to Aziraphale. “What exactly is going on here? And who’re the…Fab Four?”

Five heads swivelled to look at him.

“Excuse me, where are my manners,” the short man said, coming forward and giving Crowley’s hand a vigorous shake. “Harry Houdini, magician.”

Crowley blinked at him. Now that he had a name to put with the face, he found he really did recognise the man; he’d gone to one of his shows back in 1901, and the theatre had been in an uproar by the time the show had finished. “I know who you are.”

Harry broke off the handshake, positively beaming with delight. “A modern man! Excellent.” He turned back to Ludwig. “I told you I was famous!”

“Marcus Salvius Otho Caesar Augustus,” the Roman said, giving Crowley a polite nod. “Emperor of Rome and all her people.”

“Otho…” Crowley repeated, casting his mind back to the early days of the Empire; he’d spent a lot of time in Rome back then, boring Aziraphale to death, naturally— “After Nero, right?”

Otho seemed surprised. “Galba, actually, but after Nero, yes. You’ve heard of me!”

Crowley scrunched up his nose as he thought. “Weren’t you emperor for like three months or something? Vespasian was the one who really cleaned up Nero’s mess, as I recall.”

“ _Three months?”_ Harry repeated immediately, fixing Otho with a look bordering on incredulous. “You told us you’d been emperor for _decades_.”

Otho did not look like a man for whom blushing came naturally, though he did look distinctly guilty. “I _was_ , in that illusion—”

“No _wonder_ I’ve never heard of you!” Harry continued, sounding extremely vindicated. “You were only emperor for _three months_. What did you do, get deposed by your own guards?”

“No,” Otho said, sounding insulted. He drew himself up and straightened his toga. “My troops were bested in battle, and I knew that a civil war was imminent if the succession remained uncertain, so I took the honourable route and averted further conflict.”

Harry stared at him, and seemed to be putting together what ‘honourable route’ meant in his head. “Oh,” he said, deflating a little. “Sorry about that.”

Otho pulled himself together and gave an overly modest shrug. “Rome had already suffered much under Nero.”

“Hang on,” said Crowley, who was finally remembering something Aziraphale had said when he’d first arrived in Heaven. He pointed to the man in the cobalt jacket and riding boots. “You’re Ludwig the Second. And _you_ must be Alexander Hamilton—” He pointed next to the man with the New York accent and russet coat, and then turned back to Aziraphale. “When you said you’d _found_ them, I didn’t realise that meant you’d _talked_ to them.”

Aziraphale turned a delicate shade of pink. “Well, I was passing through their heavens, you see, and they tended to notice when all of their imagined company vanished—”

“We thought he was quite the magician,” Harry told Crowley. “But it turns out anyone can do his tricks. Not that there was ever a trick I couldn’t learn in the first place.”

“But what are you all _doing_ here?” Aziraphale asked, looking around at them in bewilderment.

“Ludwig wanted to look for his friend,” Alexander said.

“Boyfriend,” Harry amended.

“Lover,” Otho clarified, apparently for Crowley’s benefit.

“Ahem,” Ludwig said, rather loudly. “I married him, didn’t I?”

“Only in your illusion,” Harry pointed out.

Ludwig scowled.

“Anyway,” Alexander continued to Aziraphale, who for some reason had blushed again, “Ludwig wanted to find him, and the rest of us wanted to find our own friends and family too.”

“They’re living in illusions,” Harry picked up. “They don’t realise they’re being tricked. Take it from a professional magician; tricks are for entertainment, and deceiving people for reasons other than that is deplorable.”

“We’ve been spreading the truth,” Ludwig said, proudly. “They all deserve to know.”

Aziraphale stared at them, aghast. “ _That’s_ what Azrael was talking about,” he said. “Souls running rampant.”

Something similar was occurring to Crowley. “The archangels were talking about a security breach,” he said. “Jophiel—I think that’s his name, the head of the guards—seemed upset about it, but Azrael said she had it under control.”

“Azrael?” Otho asked. “Is that the winged goddess who pursues us?”

“Archangel, actually,” Aziraphale corrected. “Extremely powerful. You need to be more careful; she’s probably not very happy with you at all.”

“I have no fear of the gods,” Otho said. “I have already left the mortal world behind.”

“And no one catches the Great Houdini,” Harry added, “unless he so wishes it.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Crowley said.

“So if you’re going around telling people the truth…” Aziraphale said slowly. He still looked a little bemused. “Well, how are they taking it?”

“Eh, mixed reactions, mostly,” Harry said. “Can’t blame them, really.”

“But they were happy before,” Aziraphale said in a slightly worried tone. “That’s how the system _works_. They may be ignorant, certainly, but are you just going around making them miserable? It’s not like they can change the fact that they’re dead.”

Ludwig frowned at him. “It is better to live an unhappy, free life than one trapped in ignorant luxury.”

“We don’t all agree with him,” Otho said, “but they at least deserve the chance to try and find their Earthly acquaintances.”

“Oh dear,” fretted Aziraphale.

“You found your Richard, somehow,” Ludwig said, casting a glance at Crowley, “but the rest of us are still looking for ours. Would you dissuade us from that course?”

“I suppose not,” Aziraphale said, sounding a little dubious.

“Er,” said Crowley, to whom something had just occurred, “you’re not trying to leave Heaven, right? Just find your friends here?”

“The Earth is for the living,” Otho agreed. “It is many years past our times. We do not begrudge our heirs their right to succeed us.”

“Ah,” said Crowley, casting Aziraphale a glance. “That’s probably wise.” He paused and cleared his throat. “ _However,_ ” he said delicately, “Aziraphale and I were thinking—”

“Aziraphale?” Ludwig cut him off, glancing at the former angel. “That’s your name, magician? How lovely.”

“I used to be an angel,” Aziraphale said by way of explanation, and gestured at Crowley. “And Crowley here’s one right now.”

“Really?” Alexander asked, turning to size Crowley up. “Where’re your wings?”

“Right here,” Crowley said, and allowed them to melt into view.

Harry’s eyebrows shot up and Otho made some sort of complex sign that was probably warding against evil spirits.

Ludwig turned back to Aziraphale and slapped him lightly on the arm. “You didn’t tell me you were an _angel_ , magician!”

“I’m not anymore,” Aziraphale said. “Long story.”

“But we still have friends on Earth,” Crowley said, striving to put the conversation back on track, “so we were planning on going back down.”

“Wait,” Harry said suddenly, looking between Crowley and Aziraphale and addressing his next words to the former. “You’re not dead, are you?”

“No,” Crowley agreed. “I’m immortal; I flew up here.” Something brushed his left wing and he twitched it away automatically, glancing over to see Otho poking gently at his feathers.

“The goddess and her harpies had wings like these,” he said, a hint of awe in his voice. “But they are more beautiful up close.”

“So you’re going to take Aziraphale back?” Ludwig said, addressing this to Crowley. “You’re here to rescue him?”

“I dunno if _rescue_ is the right term,” Crowley said, wing twitching again as Otho touched another feather. He quickly tucked his wings away, out of sight.

“Didn’t mean to intrude,” Otho muttered apologetically.

“The system doesn’t work quite right for me,” Aziraphale explained, “because I used to be an angel. All of you were living in perfect paradises—had been for decades or even centuries—and would never have realised they weren’t genuine if I hadn’t shown up, but I realised my heaven was a fabrication almost straight away. They simply weren’t designed to accommodate anyone who hasn’t always been human.”

“Neither of you belong here, then,” Ludwig summarised, looking between them.

“Not really,” Aziraphale said.

“Which is why we’re thinking of sneaking out,” Crowley explained. “I don’t suppose you lot would have any bright ideas on how to do that, since you’ve been sneaking around yourselves?”

“Well,” said Harry, in the tone of voice of someone who’s just been given a particularly delightful puzzle to solve, “if you’re looking for a way out, there hasn’t been a box yet the Great Houdini can’t escape from.”

Crowley brightened at this. “So you’ll help? We’d really appreciate it.”

“I once said I would aid you in any way I could,” Ludwig said, turning back to Aziraphale, “and I hold myself to that promise still.”

“Will it inconvenience that archangel—Azrael, I think you said?” Alexander asked. “She rules over these trapped people with a heavy hand.”

“I’d imagine so,” said Aziraphale, actually looking a little worried at the prospect. “I hope the other archangels don’t come down on her too hard about it.”

“Then I’m in for a little troublemaking,” Alexander said, rubbing his hands in apparent delight. “Otho?”

The Roman shifted on his feet. “One feather from the most beautiful pair of wings I have ever seen would secure my allegiance in this matter.”

Crowley blinked at him. “You want a feather?”

Otho gave him a slight bow. “If it is not too much to ask. A mark of the favour of the gods would be of much reassurance to me.”

Crowley shot Aziraphale a glance; the former angel gave him a look that said it was his decision. Ludwig looked a little long-suffering.

“We told you, Otho, it’s a monotheistic Heaven,” Alexander hissed to him, but Otho ignored him, eyes trained on Crowley.

The unFallen angel shrugged. “Sure.” He drew his wings back into sight and half-unfolded one of them towards the Roman. “Take your pick.”

Otho’s eyes slid down Crowley’s wing, eyes filled with something like reverence. Crowley thought with some embarrassment that he needed to preen more often.

“Not the long ones,” Crowley amended his offer hastily; he had only just got his primaries back, after all.

Otho nodded and slowly extended a hand. He laid his fingers very carefully on his chosen feather and gave a gentle tug. It came away with only a tiny prick of pain, and Crowley saw with some surprise that he had selected one of the small coverts near the leading edge of his wing, a gleaming white feather only four inches or so long.

Otho looked at it like he was holding gold in his hands. Embarrassed, Crowley hastily tucked his wings back out of sight. “Anyone else have any conditions?”

Harry shrugged and Alexander shook his head.

Ludwig turned back to Aziraphale and gave him a slight bow. “Magician, we are at your service.”

 

~~***~~

 

“Aziraphale!” Crowley’s voice floated through the open door of the cottage, reaching the former angel where he knelt tending to the tulips in the garden. There had never been any weeds in the garden before, but apparently once Aziraphale found that he rather missed the pastime, they had started appearing.

Crowley’s voice was loud and urgent but not worried—if anything it was brimming with barely-contained excitement—so Aziraphale only shifted his weight back and looked up as Crowley stumbled through the front door of the cottage. He was waving something dark around in his hand, and Aziraphale stilled abruptly when he realised that it was one of his journals.

Crowley had been positively flying through the journals recently, working his way through multiple volumes in a single day. He must have nearly finished reading them, and as Aziraphale looked at Crowley now, he wondered with some trepidation if that was exactly what had happened. His mind was flashing back to the paragraph he had written at the end of the very last volume, the one telling Crowley that he loved him.

Aziraphale honestly wasn’t sure how Crowley would react to that part, but he doubted it would have elicited this response, so he decided Crowley must not have got that far yet. Feeling a bizarre mix of disappointment and relief, Aziraphale opened his mouth to ask what was the matter, but Crowley beat him to it.

“The Trees!” Crowley exclaimed, still waving the journal around in his excitement as he crossed to Aziraphale, shoes rustling in the grass. “That’s how we’re going to do it!”

Aziraphale frowned up at Crowley as he dusted the soil off his hands. “What _are_ you talking about, my dear?”

“The _Trees_ ,” Crowley said again, finally having the presence of mind to stop waving the journal around. “In Eden. _That’s_ how we’re going to get you back to Earth!”

Aziraphale made his way to his feet. “You’re going to have to be more specific than that, I’m afraid.”

Crowley appeared a little exasperated that Aziraphale hadn’t caught on immediately, but still seemed in good enough cheer. “There are two Trees in Eden, right? The Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil—that’s the one I tempted Eve to eat from—and _the Tree of Life_.”

Aziraphale blinked at him.

“ _Life_ , Aziraphale,” Crowley continued, moving forward to take his friend by the shoulders. “If you ate from that Tree, angel, it would _make you immortal again!”_

Aziraphale stared at him in astonishment.

“Mortal lives, immortal souls,” Crowley continued, gripping Aziraphale’s shoulders more tightly. “That’s what humans have. But if you— _an immortal soul_ —ate from the Tree of _Life_ , it would grant you _immortal life_. Right?”

Aziraphale found he had reached for Crowley and hung on.

“And I bet it would give you a physical form again too,” Crowley said, the excitement in his voice finally starting to stir a matching reaction in Aziraphale. “Physicality is practically a definitional component of life, right? You used to have a physical body, but when your mortal life ended, you became entirely an ethereal spirit. So if you had eternal life, wouldn’t you necessarily have to have an eternal physical body as well? A permanent corporation or something.”

Aziraphale was beginning to realise that this seemed not only plausible but incredibly likely. And if what Crowley was saying was true, then Aziraphale might be able to live on Earth again, as immortal as he’d been before his Fall. He’d be able to go back to the real Midfarthing and London, and interact with more than just imagined versions of his friends. And he and Crowley could go to St James’s and there would be ducks, and the Ritz would have the most delightful food…

Aziraphale found that his breathing had picked up, hands wrapped quite tightly around Crowley’s sleeves, near his elbows.

“Do you really think that would work?” Aziraphale asked in a strangely hoarse voice.

Crowley grinned at him, golden eyes shining with conviction. “I do.”

“Eden…” Aziraphale said, turning the idea over in his head. “Back to where it all began.”

“And the best news is that it won’t even take us long!” Crowley said, clearly thrilled at the prospect. “We should be able to get through that gate easy-peasy, and then we’re halfway there!”

Aziraphale felt his smile falter. “What do you mean?”

Crowley seemed unperturbed. “Well, Eden’s in Heaven, right? As long as we can avoid attracting too much attention—actually, that might be kind of hard, because angels keep following me around no matter where I go—”

“Eden is on Earth,” Aziraphale interrupted.

Crowley broke off in surprise. He blinked at Aziraphale. “What?”

“Eden’s on Earth,” Aziraphale repeated. “It’s always been on Earth.”

Crowley looked aghast. “What? I thought it was in Heaven! The third heaven or something, right?”

“Oh…no,” Aziraphale said slowly, realising where the misunderstanding must have occurred. “After the Fall, Heaven shielded Eden and sort of tucked it away into a pocket dimension to keep it safe.”

Crowley took a surprised breath. “Eden disappeared, I remember that—but I thought it had ascended into Heaven or something. That’s what everyone was saying.”

“Er,” said Aziraphale, who was beginning to remember exactly what had happened, “I think the official policy was to not, er, disagree with Below when they seemed to think that. So they wouldn’t go looking for it.”

“Well, bugger,” Crowley said, letting go of Aziraphale. “No! Well…” He scratched a cheek. “Actually,” he said, brightening, “it should still be doable. We’ll just go to Earth, then. It’ll be harder, but not impossible.”

“Eden’s sealed,” Aziraphale pointed out. “Has been ever since the Fall.”

“Sealed?” Crowley echoed.

“Locked,” Aziraphale clarified. “They didn’t want to keep actual guards on it in case their movements clued Below in that something was going on, so they sealed the gates.”

“Well, if it’s locked, then there’s got to be a key, right?” Crowley said, with a great deal more optimism than was probably good for him.

Aziraphale hesitated, and a slightly guilty look must have crossed his face, because Crowley’s serpentine eyes narrowed imperceptibly. “And you know what it is, don’t you?”

Aziraphale shifted. “I don’t know _where_ it is,” he said.

Crowley’s eyes narrowed further. “Well, cough it up, Mr Guardian of the Eastern Gate.”

Aziraphale felt a small smile flit across his face at the mention of his old title. After a moment more of Crowley looking at him expectantly, Aziraphale relented. “Each gate was sealed with a different key,” he explained. “A unique key, one that had been custom-made in the early days of Creation. The key to the Eastern Gate was recovered by Heaven a month or so after the Fall of Man, and it was the last gate to be sealed.”

Now Crowley looked slightly suspicious. “What is it?”

Aziraphale gave him a kind smile. “The sword, of course.”

Crowley blinked at him. “The flaming sword?”

“That’s the one,” Aziraphale said, oddly satisfied by the stupefied expression on Crowley’s face.

“The one you gave to Adam and Eve?” Crowley clarified.

Aziraphale felt himself blush a little. “The very same.”

Crowley stared at him. “You gave not only your weapon but _the key to Eden itself_ to the very people who were being banished from it?”

“Well,” said Aziraphale, realising rather belatedly that that probably didn’t sound very responsible of him, “in my defence, they hadn’t sealed Eden yet, so how was I to know it was also a key?”

“You’re…you’re something else, angel,” Crowley said, but he gave his arm an affectionate pat nonetheless. “You said Heaven had recovered it?”

“I know they sealed Eden with it, so presumably, yes,” Aziraphale said.

“But you don’t know where it is?”

Aziraphale nodded confirmation. “Under guard somewhere, I should imagine.”

“But any of the swords would work, right?” Crowley asked. “North Gate, West, South, whichever?”

“For each gate, yes,” Aziraphale said. “But they each have particular spatial coordinates on Earth, and I only know where the Eastern Gate is.”

“All right then,” Crowley said. “We need to track down that sword first of all, and then we can head down to Earth, find Eden, use the sword to unlock the gate, and _then_ get to the Tree. How’s that sound?”

Aziraphale gave him a wan smile. “I’m afraid you’ve overlooked a rather important detail or two,” he said.

“What’s that?”

“The moment I cross the place where the planes diverge between here and Earth,” Aziraphale said, “I’ll be completely ethereal in a physical world.”

Crowley shrugged. “So?”

“I’d be invisible,” Aziraphale explained. “Intangible. Little better than a ghost. And how do you expect a ghost to be able to eat fruit from a Tree?”

“Ah,” Crowley said. “I see your point.”

“There’s also the getting to Earth part,” Aziraphale continued. “When you fly down, your wings help you transition from the ethereal to the physical plane. I have no wings.”

“I could…I dunno, find a way to carry you or something,” Crowley offered.

Aziraphale shook his head. “Even now, when you’re ethereal, you have a physical corporation, you’re just not using it. When the planes diverge, you’ll switch from one to the other.” Aziraphale held his hands up to demonstrate, indicating two invisible, parallel tracks stretching away from him. He moved his left hand to above his right, showing that Crowley would cross from one track to the other partway through the process. “I don’t have a physical body anymore so I’d just keep falling ethereally.” Aziraphale returned his hands to their original position and moved his left forward and backward, emphasizing that he would remain on the same track for the duration of the journey. “And that’s _literally_ falling—physics still works quite well, and even the ethereal Earth doesn’t like it when you run into it at terminal velocity.”

“So, what if…” Crowley thought for a moment. “What if I could, I dunno, get a parachute or something? Bring it up from Earth so it would have a physical component. Wouldn’t that work?”

Aziraphale smiled faintly at the thought; he’d had a similar idea himself, when trying to work through this same problem so he could reach Crowley on Earth. “The parachute would make the same transition to the physical plane that you do. And I’d drop like an ethereal rock.”

“Okay, an ethereal parachute, then!” Crowley said. “That way it’d stay with you, right?”

“It would,” Aziraphale agreed. “But we’d almost certainly get separated when you diverge to the physical plane, and who knows how long it would take me to find you, because neither of us would be able to contact the other. I’d be able to see the physical world, but not interact with it, and you wouldn’t be able to see or hear me at all.”

“Well, who came up with that?” Crowley huffed.

Aziraphale patted Crowley on the shoulder. “I don’t think He ever intended for souls to leave Heaven in the first place,” Aziraphale pointed out. “We’re very far outside the bounds of what He intended. I mean, we’re thinking of breaking into _Eden_.”

Crowley harrumphed again. “Well, we’ll work something out,” he said. “You’ve got all of these books, let’s see if any of them are of any use!”


	7. Heaven's Library

It was bizarre, Aziraphale thought, watching Crowley take the exact same steps he had months ago, combing through Aziraphale’s imagined bookshop in search of any texts that might shed light on how to escape Heaven.

It was also strangely comforting, though, knowing that Crowley _was_ taking the exact same steps as he had—if Crowley had had some sort of stroke of genius and worked out how to escape straight away, Aziraphale likely would have never forgiven himself for having not had the same brainwave months ago. But Crowley seemed to be tackling the problem in much the same manner he had, though with considerably more enthusiasm.

“I feel like there _have_ to be multiple ways we could do this,” Crowley said one afternoon, flipping through a heavenly encyclopaedia. “And we’ve only got to find one.”

“We’ll be _lucky_ if we find one,” Aziraphale corrected, working his way through the table of contents of a rather old, stained tome with a broken spine.

“Come on, angel, a little optimism never hurt anyone,” Crowley said cheerfully, turning to the next page in the encyclopaedia.

“I’m certain it has,” Aziraphale said mildly, reaching for his cup of tea—the real stuff Crowley had brought was just marvellous. “I can think of several cases, in fact. Like that time—”

“Hold that thought, angel,” Crowley said, raising a hand. “I might have found something.”

Aziraphale looked over interestedly; from what he could read upside down, Crowley was looking at the entry on ‘transference.’ Aziraphale took another sip of his tea while Crowley skimmed it.

“Oh, this might actually be something,” Crowley said, putting a finger on one of the lines. “Angel, do you remember where that sigil book went? The Major Sigils something or another?”

Aziraphale started poking through the not-insubstantial pile of books near his elbow until he found the one Crowley was asking for, _Major Sigils of the Seven Heavens_. “What are you looking for?”

“A transference sigil,” Crowley said, reading something else on the page in front of him. “I think I saw one in there, but I thought it was talking about location so I didn’t bother looking at it.”

Aziraphale frowned. “Oh, that one? I’m fairly certain that’s just for objects.”

Crowley glanced up at Aziraphale. “We could adapt it.”

Aziraphale twisted his lips in thought but opened the book nonetheless. Without bothering to glance at the table of contents—even if he hadn’t remembered this book very well from his initial read of it several millennia ago, he’d combed through it enough times this last year to know it cover to cover—he navigated to the sigil Crowley was talking about.

The sigil itself lay on the right-hand page, a large circular diagram with a double line around the circumference and a seven-point star set within it. Glyphs dotted the diagram in an elegant curving script.

Aziraphale glanced over the text on the left-hand page, but it looked much as he remembered it. “See, Crowley, it’s not a permanent spell; you couldn’t possibly sustain it for more than a couple of seconds.”

Crowley extended a hand and motioned for the book. Aziraphale sighed and put it in his hand. Crowley pulled it over to himself and read it carefully, lips moving slightly.

“… _transfers the contents of the second sigil into the physical plane_ ,” Crowley read aloud after a moment. “Second sigil? Where’s…” He turned the page, revealing a second circular diagram. “Ah. Double major-sigil spell. Lovely.”

“It’ll transfer something to the physical plane all right,” Aziraphale pointed out. “But it’ll only stay there for a moment. The author says he couldn’t find a way to maintain his connection to the object, because the sigil’s only in effect for the amount of time it takes to cast the spell and draw the power from the caster.”

Crowley frowned down at the book. “If it doesn’t work, then why’d he put it in his book?”

“He wanted to show that it was possible to shift objects from the ethereal to the physical plane and back again; he was seeing if he could imitate the wings of angels.”

“…which already do that,” Crowley concluded.

Aziraphale nodded. “It’s actually an incredible bit of spellwork, but if it doesn’t work for very long I don’t know how useful it could be. He says it would probably work if the caster was incredibly powerful—a large enough initial burst of power could literally create a physical presence, sort of like miracling an object into existence. An archangel could do it.”

“Well, how long is ‘very long?’” Crowley asked, flipping the page and reading the text opposite the second sigil, which looked much like the first. “Ah, apparently ‘a moment’ is as specific as he gets. That’s helpful.”

“My thoughts precisely.”

“I wonder if ‘a moment’ is long enough to take a bite of the fruit,” Crowley speculated, tapping his finger against the edge of the page. “Getting to Eden would be kind of tricky with you being ethereal and all, but maybe we could work something out—perform this spell every hour or so, make sure you’re still following me all right. Or I could get the apple—or whatever fruit the Tree of Life has—and bring it back. We could rendezvous somewhere.”

“You are _not_ breaking into Eden alone,” Aziraphale stated. “You’d never find it yourself, for one thing.”

“You couldn’t…I dunno, give me directions or something?”

“I don’t know where it is _exactly_ ,” Aziraphale said, a little exasperated. “I’ll know it when I see it.”

Crowley made a disbelieving noise and looked back down at the pages in front of him. “He’ll know it when he sees it,” he told the book.

“Well, it’s not like I’ve been there anytime in the last millennium,” Aziraphale said with a huff. “I’m sure the place has changed a lot over six thousand years.”

Crowley made a noise of agreement and looked back down at the book, frowning. His finger ran once down the edge of the page, slowly. “So the problem with this sigil is sustaining the link between the object and the caster, right?” he asked, shifting his gaze back to Aziraphale. “The sigils make a connection, but once the spell’s been cast and brought the object into the physical plane, it can’t stay there because it doesn’t actually have a physical form. It’s just…” Crowley waved his free hand in the air, clearly searching for a word. “Just _impressing_ itself upon the physical world.”

“More or less,” Aziraphale agreed. He narrowed his eyes. “What are you thinking?”

Crowley glanced up at him. “I’m thinking, you’re not an object.”

Aziraphale frowned. “I should hope not.”

“When you’re ethereal,” Crowley said, putting his elbows on the book and gesturing at Aziraphale with both of his hands, “you’re basically just a soul, right? Definitionally, that’s what you are.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale agreed cautiously. He wasn’t sure he liked where this was going.

“Objects don’t have souls.”

Aziraphale frowned at him. “I should hope that was already apparent.”

“Yes, _well_ ,” Crowley said, gesturing to the book, “this chap is assuming whatever is sitting in the second sigil is an inanimate object, something he can’t really _interact_ with. But an angel or demon’s intrinsic power is _stored_ in their soul, right? That’s what the sigil is seeing, and what it’s drawing on. The soul is the…the _channel_ for the power. And that other book…where’d it go…” He started rummaging through one of the other piles on the table. The moment Crowley pulled the book he was looking for free, Aziraphale knew what he was going to suggest.

“No,” Aziraphale said. “That’s incredibly dangerous, Crowley.”

“You don’t know that,” Crowley said airily, flipping through the book. This one was a dense text on the nature of souls, and he knew Crowley had read through it yesterday.

“Anything that compromises the integrity of your soul is out of the question,” Aziraphale said, feeling a hard knot form in his stomach at the very thought. “It’s bad enough that I’m dead, but at least we’re both, you know, _ethereally intact_.”

“Hang on, let me find it…” Crowley leafed back and forth through the book, and Aziraphale resisted the urge to turn him to the correct page.

Eventually Crowley found it on his own and he read, “ _Given the fluidity of the soul, it may be possible to divide it into separate entities in order to better harness the power within._ ”

“ _Yes_ ,” Aziraphale said emphatically. “Do keep reading.”

Crowley cast him a glance but kept going as he was bid. “ _This technique has not been fully explored, and though possible in theory, the consequences are not known._ So they haven’t tested it yet, so what?”

“Keep reading,” Aziraphale said in a heavy voice.

“ _Dividing the soul may potentially result in_ …er, _irreparable damage, particularly if too much is divided_.”

“See?” Aziraphale said. “Dangerous.”

“It says it _may potentially_ result in irreparable damage,” Crowley protested. “They said they didn’t test it, so how would they know?”

“Don’t go tearing your soul into pieces,” Aziraphale said, still doing his best to scrub the idea from Crowley’s mind. “You wouldn’t be able to buy much extra time with the power you could store in each section anyway.”

Crowley blinked at him and frowned. “What do you mean? I wouldn’t be _storing_ power.”

Now it was Aziraphale’s turn to frown. “What’s the point, then?”

“Forming a connection,” Crowley said. “Keeping a channel open. I just need an anchor is all.”

Aziraphale stared at Crowley in confusion. “What?”

“I was saying,” Crowley clarified, “that if I gave you a bit of my soul, it would only need to be big enough to keep a channel open between us. That way, after I’d performed the spell the first time, I could continuously sustain it.” Crowley shifted his attention back to the first book. “It seems like it’s not a huge power drain, and I think most of it is in just _bringing_ the object into the physical plane. Once it’s there, I don’t think it would take as much effort—an object in motion stays in motion, etcetera.”

Aziraphale felt his mouth gape open a little. He was still focussed on one of the first things Crowley had said. “Hang on,” Aziraphale said, leaning closer. “Did you say you wanted to _give me a part of your soul_?”

Crowley glanced up from where he’d been eagerly searching for the passage describing the power drain. He blinked when he saw Aziraphale’s stupefied expression, and a slight flush coloured his cheeks. “Ah, yes?” he said. “It just…er, seemed like it might be the easiest way to keep a channel open.” He quickly averted his eyes and flipped to another page in the book, voice suddenly flat. “Er, never mind, I shouldn’t have assumed—it was just a thought.” He cleared his throat a little awkwardly, beautiful golden eyes still downcast. “We can look for something else.”

Aziraphale was beset by several emotions at once, and he spent a moment just trying to parse through which one to express first.

“ _Crowley_ ,” he said at last. “My _dear_.”

Crowley glanced up at him reluctantly, looking more than a little nervous and rather embarrassed. “…Yeah?”

Aziraphale again struggled with himself for a moment, torn between wanting to give Crowley a hug and slap him. “First of all,” he said, rather stiffly, once he had reached a compromise, “I would be _honoured_.”

Crowley gave him a surprised look.

“Secondly,” Aziraphale continued, “it’s still incredibly dangerous and we have no reason to believe it wouldn’t just kill you.”

Crowley opened his mouth to object, but Aziraphale held up a hand.

“And thirdly, that was not _at all_ what I thought you were going to suggest.”

Crowley thought that over. “Oh?”

Aziraphale took a deep breath. “I _thought_ you were suggesting trying to widen the time frame I’d be physical by tricking the sigil into thinking you were six different people or something. If you divided your soul multiple times, you could increase the amount of power the sigil could drain at any given time, which might have kept me physical a little longer.”

Crowley stared at him. “Oh. No, that wasn’t at all what I was thinking. Sorry.”

“No, it’s—it’s fine.” Aziraphale reached across the table and gave Crowley’s hand a little squeeze, to let him know he meant it.

Crowley met his gaze and gave him a small, uncertain smile. “It would just be a small part,” he said, pitching his voice persuasively. “The book says it would only be a problem if you divided your soul many times, but I don’t think I’d miss a little piece, do you?”

“It may not be reversible,” Aziraphale pointed out, not because he particularly minded but because he felt Crowley ought to know.

Crowley shrugged and Aziraphale felt his grip tighten imperceptibly on Crowley’s hand in response. Crowley was offering to give Aziraphale part of the most valuable thing he had—his _self_ —and now he was saying he wouldn’t mind if Aziraphale never gave it back. Aziraphale felt the urge to lean forward and pull his beautiful Crowley into a hug, or perhaps a kiss, but restrained himself; Crowley seemed remarkably unconcerned about the whole affair, so perhaps Aziraphale was just reading too much into it, as usual.

“So is this a viable option, then?” Crowley asked.

Aziraphale forced himself to let go of Crowley’s hand, leaning back in his chair and forcefully dismissing his fleeting, hopeful thoughts, doing his best to hide his pang of disappointment. But even if offering a piece of his soul to Aziraphale wasn’t as meaningful of an act to Crowley as it was to him, Aziraphale decided it certainly wasn’t an empty gesture, and there was solace to be had in that.

“Maybe,” Aziraphale said, directing his attention back to practical matters. “I’d feel better if I knew someone else had tried it and lived.”

Crowley nodded. “And I’m assuming that would need another spell of some sort—I dunno how to divide souls.”

“Hm,” Aziraphale agreed. He thought back for a few seconds. “I don’t remember reading about _how_ to divide souls, practically speaking, that is, but I may know how we can find out.”

Crowley brightened slightly.

He looked so sincere, sitting there across from Aziraphale with that optimistic, expectant expression, and Aziraphale decided that it most definitely hadn’t been an _empty_ gesture. Feeling remarkably cheered by the eagerness in Crowley’s gaze, Aziraphale leaned forward across the table. “Well,” he said, pitching his voice into an almost conspiratorial tone. “I’m afraid you’ll have to go alone, since you’re the angel.”

“Don’t remind me,” Crowley said, leaning forward too, golden eyes sparkling. “Where am I going?”

Aziraphale gave him a warm smile. “Where else? The library.”

 

~~***~~

 

 

[[link](http://improbabledreams900.tumblr.com/post/162861137548/imagining-of-heavens-library-from-the-inheritance)]

 

As Crowley approached Heaven’s library, he couldn’t stop himself from letting out a low whistle. Heaven’s baroque tastes had extended even here, transforming what might have once been a modest building into a structure of soaring arches topped with gilded finials and altogether too many colours of marble.

Crowley’s footsteps seemed too loud as he crossed the silent antechamber, polished pillars rising around him like proud soldiers. The ceiling vaulted high above him, inlaid with gold and silver stars, forming a miniature cosmos all of its own.

There was only one archway leading out of the room, sitting directly opposite Crowley. And right in the middle of the archway, leaving only a few unobstructed metres of space on either side, sat a large rectangular desk.

As Crowley neared, shoes eliciting quiet scuffing sounds from the polished marble floor, he saw it was a rather high desk as well. So high, in fact, that when he finally came to a halt a few metres away, he had to tilt his head back to make eye contact with the angel sitting behind it.

He looked ancient, as far as Crowley was concerned, though he was, in all probability, roughly the same age as Crowley. His white wings looked dusty—perhaps literally—and a large pair of spectacles rested on his crooked, bulbous nose. The only things missing from the illusion of celestial judgment were a wig and gavel.

“Hello,” Crowley said tentatively, craning his head back and making sure the satchel Aziraphale had lent him was secure against his side. “I’m here to look at the books.”

The angel behind the desk—Aziraphale had informed him his name was Harahel—looked up ponderously from whatever book was sitting on his desk, too high up to be in Crowley’s line of sight.

“ _Look at the books?_ ” the librarian rumbled. “And whyever would I allow you to do that?”

“Aziraphale sent me,” Crowley said helpfully. “He wants me to look some stuff up for him.” He raised the half-sheet of paper in his hand as evidence—Aziraphale had scrawled a note and several book titles on it.

“ _Aziraphale?_ ” Harahel repeated, leaning forward and putting his hands on the edge of the desk, knotted fingers curling around the front lip. He peered down at Crowley from behind his spectacles, eyes grey but surprisingly sharp. “You’re that demon, aren’t you?”

“Er, not anymore,” Crowley said, making sure his wings were visible.

“I always knew that boy would get into trouble one day,” Harahel rumbled.

Crowley had always been under the impression that Aziraphale had been created old, but it was quickly becoming apparent that, next to Harahel, Aziraphale was positively _juvenile_.

“Running around making arrangements with demons,” the librarian continued disapprovingly. “No good could come of it.”

“Er,” Crowley said again, surprised Aziraphale had told anyone about their Arrangement. Aziraphale _had_ said Harahel had been a sort of mentor to him, but _still_.

“Aziraphale Fell, didn’t he?” Harahel continued in that gravelly voice. “Reckless boy.”

“Here,” Crowley said, reaching up with the note. Harahel stared at it suspiciously for a moment before reaching down to take it from him, dusty wings stretching open slightly to compensate for his shift in balance—Crowley thought he saw actual dust particles floating off his feathers.

Harahel squinted at the note. “Fallen to human, that’s unprecedented.” His gaze shifted to Crowley. “And _I_ would know.” He cleared his throat noisily and turned back to the note. “Says he can’t come in person because he can’t leave his heaven…serves him right, the rascal.”

Crowley started to laugh and covered it with a cough.

“Don’t know why Aziraphale would think I’d let you in as a _favour_ ,” Harahel continued. “If anything, that boy owes _me_ —all those times I let him in, and never a word of thanks, the insufferable no-good-doer.”

Aziraphale had told him to expect this sort of thing, so Crowley kept his silence patiently.

“He would come and ask to _read_ the books, can you believe the _cheek?_ Acting like he had the _right_ , who does he think he is? Absolutely _insufferable_ , I tell you!”

Crowley resisted the urge to point out that it _was_ a library.

“He’s lucky he put them back in the right spots, else I would never have allowed it at all.” Harahel leaned back in his chair. “ _Angels_ these days, always thinking they’re _entitled_ to things, and then running off and causing all sorts of trouble, like no one has to clean up after them. It’s disgraceful is what it is.”

Crowley made a noise of agreement.

Harahel seemed to remember Crowley was there and leaned forward again, peering over the edge of his desk at the unFallen angel.

“Well, what are you still doing here?” he barked. “Don’t you have some place to be, or are you just as lazy as the lot of them?”

“I was wondering if I could look at the books,” Crowley repeated.

“Yes, well, get on with it then,” Harahel grumbled, and flicked the piece of paper back at Crowley, who did his best to catch it. “Don’t you think I have better things to do than sit around here listening to the whinges of ignorant whippersnappers like yourself?”

“Thank you,” Crowley said, starting past him around the desk. “I’ll be very careful.”

Harahel grumbled something that sounded very much like, “I doubt it,” but Crowley was already past him, moving through the archway and into Heaven’s library.

The books were organised by some sort of complicated classification system, but Aziraphale had drawn him a rough map on the second piece of paper Crowley now pulled out of his jacket pocket, as well as having done his best to explain where he’d find each book. Checking books out from the library was nominally allowed, except that Harahel had been the librarian for as long as Aziraphale could remember, and he had strictly forbidden the practise. Apparently that hadn’t prevented Aziraphale from liberating a number of volumes over the years, but Aziraphale had told him he was better off staying on Harahel’s good side if it could be helped.

Following the rough map in his hand, Crowley carefully worked his way through rooms full of freestanding bookcases, each one heavily ornamented and gilded. Tall, narrow windows sent shafts of slanting light into the aisles, highlighting the motes of dust in the air and spilling across rows of reading tables.

Crowley didn’t see another person as he continued through the space. The library wasn’t all that large, all things considered, but Aziraphale had told him it contained a great number of books by heavenly authors, as well as a few very old texts from before the Fall.

“There was this great library in Heaven and you spent time on Earth?” Crowley had asked Aziraphale, surprised.

“I was assigned to Earth,” Aziraphale had replied with a shrug, “which was really more interesting anyway. And I’d always drop by whenever I was discorporated, or when I had paperwork to file.”

“Hmph,” Crowley had replied, because if he’d known Aziraphale had been having such a pleasant time in Heaven, he probably wouldn’t have felt so bad about all those times he’d discorporated him.

It wasn’t long before Crowley managed to find the section Aziraphale had starred on the map, and he began glancing at the brass plaques mounted to the ends of the bookcases, comparing the call numbers on them to the list Aziraphale had written out.

As Aziraphale had explained, the books were organised by subject, so it wasn’t long before Crowley managed to locate the shelf on the nature of souls. The books had a variety of bindings—some were traditional, leather-bound volumes with age-darkened spines, while others were wrapped in satin or encased completely in gold leaf. Though Crowley severely doubted there’d been more than a half-dozen angels, if any, in the library in the last century apart from himself, Aziraphale, and Harahel, there was a distinct lack of dust on any of the books. Crowley recalled Aziraphale meticulously dusting his own collection, and wondered with a smirk if this was where he’d picked up the habit.

He worked his way slowly through the shelf, pulling each book out and skimming the table of contents or paging through it. Aziraphale had warned him that Harahel might not let him back in if he put the books back on the shelf in even a slightly different order, so Crowley dug the slips of paper out of the satchel that he’d procured for this very reason. As he took each book out, he carefully copied the title onto the piece of paper and left it on the shelf in lieu of the book itself. Once Crowley had a sizeable stack of useful-looking books, he headed back to the reading tables.

He sat down at one with a surprisingly modern-looking green glass reading lamp that looked like it was from the 20s (apparently Aziraphale had convinced Harahel these were safer than candles when he’d dropped by during the Second World War). Crowley pulled the short beaded chain and the lamp flickered on, casting a warm yellow glow over the surface of the table.

Setting the satchel on the table, Crowley tugged a pencil and notepad free, carefully opened the book on the top of the pile, and started reading.


	8. Of Souls & Scrolls

“Okay,” Crowley said, passing Aziraphale his mobile. “What do you think of that?”

Frowning, Aziraphale looked down at the device in his hand. It showed a photograph of what looked like a page from a book. He squinted down at it. “I’m afraid it’s a bit small for reading, my dear.”

“Ah, you can zoom,” Crowley said, moving closer and reaching over to demonstrate a two-finger reverse pinch that enlarged the image.

“What _will_ they think of next,” Aziraphale commented idly as he carefully navigated to the top of the block of text and started reading. He had to pan back and forth for every line, but he supposed it had saved Crowley quite a bit of transcribing.

The page was discussing a spell that could be used to “binde one soule to anoather,” and between the spelling and the formatting choices Aziraphale could tell that it had been written very long ago. “Where did you find this?” Aziraphale asked.

“It was in a scroll,” Crowley said. “At the very bottom of a shelf, in with some other scrolls on experimental spellwork and the theory of magic. The whole thing’s full of theoretical spells. I don’t think anyone ever performed this one, but there’s even an illustration of the sigils we’d need. That’s the next picture.”

After some struggling with the device, which seemed altogether too small for reading on, Aziraphale successfully swiped to the next photograph, this one indeed showing an illustration of a large sigil. It was incredibly intricate, with at least two dozen glyphs and two inscribed heptagrams.

“Really something, isn’t it?” Crowley asked. “I’ve never seen a sigil so complicated.”

Aziraphale zoomed in and panned around, and though he _had_ seen more complicated sigils, they’d never been ones he was required to use or understand.

“You need two sigils for this one too,” Crowley said, “but luckily they’re the same. We’d have to triple-check both of them, though, because I don’t know what would happen if they didn’t match exactly.”

“I don’t think we want to find out,” Aziraphale said, managing to swipe back to the original image, the one with the text. “Was there anything else the scroll said?”

“Not really,” Crowley said, scratching the side of his neck. “Like I said, it was just full of all sorts of theoretical magic. I took notes on some of the other stuff I could find, if you wanted to look those over.” He pulled a notepad out of the satchel and plopped it onto the table.

“What do you think?” Crowley asked after a moment, when Aziraphale remained frowning down at Crowley’s mobile. “It says ‘binding one soul to another’…it ought to work, right?”

Aziraphale frowned and flipped back to the image of the sigil. He motioned around for a pen. “I want to draw this out,” he said. “And list out the glyphs, so you can look them up in one of the dictionaries Harahel has. It’s been a long time since I learned anything about sigil construction, but it would be nice to at least be able to read the components, if not the positioning.”

Crowley nodded and went to fetch a blank sheet of paper and a pen.

When he returned a moment later, Aziraphale was engrossed in reading the text again, slower this time, looking for any implied statements. It took him a minute to realise that Crowley was still standing there, and hadn’t just set the pen and paper down.

He looked up at Crowley, who was silently tapping the pen against his fingers. “Something the matter, my dear?”

“Who makes the corporations?” Crowley asked.

Aziraphale blinked at him. “What?”

“The corporations,” Crowley repeated, gesturing up and down Aziraphale’s body with the end of the pen. “You know, after you’ve been discorporated. Who actually does it?”

Aziraphale blinked at him again. “Raphael. It’s her department.”

“But does Raphael make them, _personally?_ ” Crowley stressed. “Or does she have subordinates for that?”

Aziraphale thought. “Raphael makes most of them,” he said after a moment. “I think she has two or three dominions who help as well, but they specialise more in healing the wounded, not creating corporations. It’s really draining, so usually the dominions have to work together; I think they only do it if there’s a significant number of angels waiting for corporations, which really hasn’t happened all that often.”

“Hm.” Crowley frowned. “Well, there goes that idea.”

“What idea was that?”

Crowley moved to scratch his cheek, seemed to realise he was still holding the pen and paper, and handed them to Aziraphale. He sank down onto a nearby chair. “I was thinking about how to get you to Earth,” he said. “If we could just get you a corporation, we wouldn’t need to bother with the soul dividing or me bringing you into the physical plane. I was wondering if we could get someone who knew how to make corporations to help us out.”

Aziraphale was surprised by how good of an idea it was. “That could actually work…though I’m afraid Raphael probably wouldn’t be interested, and she doesn’t exactly keep corporations lying around.”

Crowley grunted agreement and started staring off into the distance at one of Aziraphale’s bookcases, frowning. Aziraphale set about transcribing the sigil from Crowley’s mobile to the sheet of paper.

“How does Raphael…I dunno, bind you to the corporation?” Crowley asked a few minutes later. “One of Belial’s cronies would always do it Below. Seemed pretty easy.”

“Well, the binding is a separate act from creating the corporation,” Aziraphale said, doing his best to carefully draw a heptagram—it was harder than it looked. “Raphael forms the corporation, and then she sort of holds it in place while another angel—you’re right, it was probably a throne or something—did the actual binding.”

Crowley thought this over for a moment. “How many sigils do you need for that?”

Aziraphale’s pen came to a stop on the last stroke of the inner heptagram. He looked up at Crowley. “Why?”

“Just wondering,” Crowley said.

Aziraphale narrowed his eyes. “Four,” he said. “One for Raphael, one for the corporation, one for the angel about to be incorporated, and one for whoever’s performing the binding spell.”

Crowley nodded and was silent for another long moment. Aziraphale turned back to the sigil he was drawing, but Crowley spoke up again. “Can you stand in two sigils at the same time?”

Aziraphale stared at him. “You’re not serious.”

“I’m just curious,” Crowley said, sitting forward. “Hypothetically, could an angel stand in two sigils at the same time? In a spell like that?”

Aziraphale thought it over. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “I think it would depend on the sigils.”

“What about the one for the corporation and the one for the caster?” Crowley asked. “Theoretically.”

Aziraphale frowned at him. He wasn’t entirely certain where Crowley was going with this, but he didn’t like the sound of things. He wanted to give Crowley a straight answer, though, so he thought through the sigils involved. Raphael’s sigil was directly tied to the corporation’s, since Raphael was sustaining the corporation and making it physical—a variation, Aziraphale realised, on the spell he and Crowley had already been looking at. Next, the sigils of the corporation and angel were tied together, because they were the ones being bound. Which left the sigil of the caster, which theoretically would only need to be tied to one of the sigils of the angel or corporation.

“I suppose so,” Aziraphale said. “Theoretically. I don’t know how you would do it in practise.”

“Could you copy one of the sigils onto a piece of cloth or something,” Crowley suggested, “and lay it on top of the other sigil? And then stand on top of the piece of cloth? You’d be standing in both circles.”

Aziraphale stared at him. “What _are_ you thinking of doing, Crowley?”

“I don’t know if it would work,” Crowley said, leaning forward, “but the best way down to Earth is with a physical corporation, right? That way you’d transition from the ethereal to the material plane, and then it’s just a matter of slowing down so you don’t literally run into the Earth.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale said, bemused, “but I don’t see—”

“You said Raphael is the only one who can make corporations,” Crowley said, “so if she isn’t willing to help out, maybe we can use one that’s already made.”

Aziraphale stared at him. “And wherever would we find—”

Crowley raised his eyebrows meaningfully and suddenly Aziraphale understood.

“Oh.” He only gave it half a moment’s thought. “No.”

“It could work,” Crowley said, leaning forward, eyes bright. “One of the books I was looking at said you could bind more than one soul to a corporation. Not recommended, of course, but doable.”

“Forget what I was saying earlier—this one’s _actually_ dangerous,” Aziraphale said, more than a little alarmed.

“It would work perfectly, though!” Crowley said. “Think about it. I already have the corporation, already have the wings. I wouldn’t mind. We’d just need to get you bound to my corporation, and then we could sneak out of Heaven that way! And we wouldn’t need any ethereal parachutes or anything weird like that—and since we’d literally be sharing the same corporation, there’s no chance we’d lose each other on the way down!” Apparently seeing Aziraphale’s mortified expression, Crowley hastily added, “We’d only need to share for as long as it took to reach the Earth, anyway. Then we could reverse the binding, I can cast that spell to make you physical, which we’d still need to sustain through you having a piece of my soul, I suppose, and then we can be off to Eden!”

“Which book did you read this in?” Aziraphale demanded.

“Um…” Crowley pulled his notepad over to himself and started flipping through it until he found the page he was looking for. “ _The Nature of Soules_ , by someone named Jebadoth.”

“Try _The Limitations of Magic_ compiled by Arathron,” Aziraphale suggested. “That’s the source for Jebadoth saying that. What he failed to mention is that it killed one of the angels trying it, and destroyed the corporation as well.”

Crowley stared at him in horror, and Aziraphale felt marginally better, knowing that Crowley wouldn’t be pursuing this particular brand of madness any longer.

“We’ll find another way,” Aziraphale said. “A safer way, for both of us.”

Crowley nodded mutely. He looked back down at the notepad. “You led me astray, Jebadoth.”

 

~~***~~

 

The full story, Crowley found later, as he sat again at one of the library’s disused reading tables, was just as dire as Aziraphale had painted it. Two angels—whom the author of this compilation of primary sources named as Venus and Ishtyr—had got it in their heads to see if they could pool their powers more effectively from within the same corporation. This would have given them an exceptional edge in something called celesparring, which Crowley gathered was a type of friendly sport similar to recreational fencing, but with more running and flying. The book he was reading from was absolutely ancient—so ancient it wasn’t even a proper book, just a collection of sheets made from something that looked sort of like papyrus, but shot through with silver—and Crowley could only imagine the world in which it had been written.

The angels had all been created about the same time, more or less, but Crowley’s memories of before the Fall were limited to recollections of Lucifer’s speeches, the slow turning of his and others’ feathers black, and some general impressions of light and perfection. His memory wasn’t as good as Aziraphale’s, but he doubted even Aziraphale had clear recollections of that time. They’d been so unspeakably young, and it was all just so _bloody long ago_.

In any case, the spell had worked, rather unfortunately, as it would turn out. The two angels had only successfully occupied the same corporation for eighteen minutes, at which point the corporation had begun to break down. Though the pair of angels had done their best to make it back to where they’d drawn the sigils, they hadn’t been quick enough. It sounded like they’d been of different choirs, because the soul of the more powerful angel—Venus, apparently—ended up overwhelming that of the unfortunate Ishtyr, and the latter was destroyed. The text did not elaborate on ‘destroyed,’ and made it clear that this was a tragedy. It had left its mark on the angel who’d survived, as well—apparently she was ‘deeply troubled.’

“Well, no shit,” Crowley muttered to the book. “Angel accidentally kills her best friend, you expect her to act like nothing happened?”

As Crowley leafed through the remainder of the pages, he began to wonder if maybe they _had_ expected this poor angel to bounce right back. This had been before the Fall, after all—as he understood it, mortality had been a relatively late invention.

There didn’t seem to be much else of interest in the remainder of the loose pages, though, so Crowley very carefully shuffled them back together and loosely bound them in the shimmering silver string they’d come wrapped together in.

He was still musing over the issue, thinking he and Aziraphale might be able to avoid some of those unpleasant consequences if they were careful enough, as he walked past Harahel’s desk.

The librarian gave him his usual beady-eyed look as Crowley strode past him, but didn’t make an effort to stop him. Before long Crowley was walking along the front of the library, heading back to the third circle.

He was so engrossed in his thoughts, absentmindedly fiddling with one of the catches on the satchel, that when someone stepped out in front of him he actually jumped a few inches. It was a she, a guard by the look of it, with brilliant red hair and a hand not-so-casually resting on the hilt of her sword.

“Oh, sorry,” Crowley said once his heart had started beating again. He tried to step past her.

“Crowley,” she said, not moving. If anything, her wings expanded slightly, blocking his path.

Crowley shifted uneasily, glancing automatically over his shoulder. His challenger seemed to be alone, and no one had come up behind him, so he still had that escape route.

“I know you’re up to something,” the guard continued, rather aggressively, and Crowley reluctantly swung his head back around.

She was a throne, Crowley saw, and he found himself wondering if he could overpower her if necessary. She did have a sword, though, and armour, and looked very much like she knew how to use both of them. Crowley had a satchel.

“You’ve been spending an awful lot of time at the library,” the angel continued, moving forward until she was crowding him closely enough that he felt the need to take a step backwards.

“I like reading,” Crowley tried.

“No one spends that much time at the library,” she continued, apparently ignoring Crowley’s words, “especially since that dominion refuses to let anyone in. So what are you up to?” She took another step forward and Crowley realised she was expertly crowding him back against the side of the building, slowly cutting off his escape route. “Spill the beans.”

Crowley opened his mouth to respond, heart hammering in his chest, and then processed what she’d just said. _Spill the beans_. He blinked. If there was one thing all of Above seemed to have in common, it was a distinct lack of colourful idioms.

“Have you spent time on Earth?” he asked in surprise.

The angel looked equally surprised by the question, but then she seemed to realise her mistake. “Rats,” she muttered and, rather to Crowley’s relief, took a half-step back, giving him a little more breathing room. “Nimoniel was right.”

“Er,” said Crowley, who really just wanted to be on his way.

“The point still stands though,” the angel said, leaning back towards him. Her expression was fierce again, but Crowley found himself less intimidated this time. “You’re planning something, I know it.”

“I…” Crowley began, grasping for something to say. “You’re right.”

She blinked at him. “What?”

“I am, er, planning something,” Crowley said. “That’s why I needed to be at the library.”

The angel frowned. “Why would you tell me that?”

“Well, why would you ask if you didn’t want to hear the answer?” Crowley shot back huffily.

The angel’s eyes narrowed as Crowley made a show of straightening up and making sure his satchel was secure. “Now, if that’s all, I do have places to be—”

He tried brushing past her, but she was quicker, reaching out and slipping the strap of the satchel expertly off his shoulder.

“Oi!” Crowley said quickly, lunging for the satchel, but she pulled it effortlessly out of his grip and quickly put some distance between them. Crowley moved to follow, but she was already digging the notepad out from the satchel. “Oi!” Crowley said again, loudly. He moved forward again, but she merely tossed the now-mostly-empty satchel at him. He caught it clumsily as she flipped open the notepad.

“Let’s see,” she said. “What devilish plots do you have in mind? Trying to take down Heaven from within? Plans to assassinate the archangels?”

“No,” Crowley said, remembering with a slight panic Michael’s words about revoking his ability to see Aziraphale if he was under suspicion of demonic activity. “Really, give that back—”

But she’d stopped speaking, and was now flipping through the notepad in surprise. “The edges of Heaven, soul binds, corporations?” she read in surprise. She had stopped dancing away from him, and Crowley was finally able to wrench the notepad from her grip. “You’re going to break him out of Heaven.” It was not a question.

“No,” Crowley said, shoving the notepad back into the satchel, though he heard the lack of conviction in his own voice.

The angel was staring at him again. “You really _were_ friends, weren’t you?”

Crowley cast her an alarmed glance. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he mumbled, quickly averting his gaze. “I don’t want any trouble.”

“No…no,” the angel said. “You don’t, do you?”

“Look,” Crowley said, feeling a little desperate, “I’m not trying to take down Heaven or anything. But Aziraphale isn’t meant to be here, and neither am I. We just want to leave, all right? So please, _please_ , don’t tell anyone.”

The angel gave him a long look, and then her stance softened. Her wings relaxed and folded themselves neatly behind her back. “I won’t,” she said, and extended a hand. “I believe you. I’m Kazariel—we’ve met before.”

Crowley, feeling vaguely like this might be a trap, very cautiously shook her hand. “I don’t remember you,” he said, though he did think she might have looked a little familiar.

“I was one of the angels guarding you when…well. When Samkiel was still alive.”

Crowley gave her a sharp glance, feeling himself automatically stiffen at the reminder.

“Don’t worry,” she said. “I’m not Samkiel. Hated the bastard, to be honest with you.”

Crowley hadn’t heard someone use such frank language in weeks, and it was incredibly refreshing. “You’ve been to Earth,” he said again.

Kazariel nodded. “I was the one guarding you when you escaped and Aziraphale Fell, so I was demoted and sent to Earth to keep an eye on Aziraphale’s last known residence—Ezra Fell’s Rare Books.”

Crowley did remember her now, remembered edging past her unconscious body as Aziraphale led him out of that terrible white room and into the sunlight. “You were stationed on Earth to look for us?” he asked in surprise.

Kazariel nodded. “I hadn’t been down to Earth in millennia. I barely left Soho.”

“… _Really?”_ Crowley asked, thinking of the day he had taken Aziraphale back to London to revisit the bookshop and their old haunts. There had been a distinct possibility that Above had posted a guard on the bookshop, but they hadn’t run into any trouble at the time.

“Then I realised how much I was missing by staying in one place—and it was fairly obvious you two weren’t stupid enough to come back—” Here Crowley nodded emphatically— “so I left. Travelled the world, as it were.” Kazariel smiled, and Crowley realised that she was being completely genuine.

“Free as a bird. Until Heaven got back in touch, of course.” She tapped the hilt of her sword in a distinctly annoyed fashion. “Said Aziraphale had arrived in Heaven, so of course there was no reason for me to be guarding the bookshop anymore. Recalled me. Now I’m back to plain old regular _guard duty_.” The way she said it made it completely apparent that this was hellish in comparison with her previous freedom. “ _But_ …” She gave Crowley a significant look. “This plan of yours, to break out of Heaven with Aziraphale—is it good?”

“Er,” said Crowley. “It’s a work in progress.”

Kazariel nodded. “When do you think it’ll be ready by?”

Crowley blinked at her in surprise. If this was a trap to get him to admit to nefarious activities, it sure was well-devised. He wasn’t certain he could trust her, but his experience with angels recently was that they weren’t underhanded like this—they were bastards to your face. “I don’t know,” he said honestly. “I’m hoping in a few weeks, but we’re still working out how to best do it, exactly.”

Kazariel nodded again. “Let me know if you need any help—really—I can’t stand it up here anymore.”

“Er,” said Crowley. “Did you, er, want to come with or something?”

“Oh, no, no,” she said hastily. “But once you two escape, Heaven’s bound to want to get you back—can’t have angels running around on Earth unsupervised, particularly those who used to be demons! They probably won’t care enough to mount any sort of large-scale manhunt, but I bet I can convince them they need to station someone back at the fugitives’ last known place of residence.” She grinned at him. “Ezra Fell’s Rare Books. Which means Earth, and God Himself knows they only ever check in with audio calls.”

Crowley felt himself laugh a little at that, recognising the sentiment from many rides in the Bentley when he’d been very glad that Beelzebub, busy shouting orders over the Blaupunkt, couldn’t see that a member of the Adversary was literally sitting right next to him.

“There’re a sizeable number of angels who think God is behind your being Redeemed,” Kazariel continued. “If you need any inside help, I’m sure I can pull some strings—I’m under Jophiel, so I know how all of the guard shifts work, and if you need a distraction or anything, that’s just a matter of dropping the right words at the right time.”

“Wow,” said Crowley, who was still trying to fully process that she wasn’t going to turn him in. “Really? Thanks.”

“Anything to get out of here,” she said, and her tone was only half-joking.

“Actually,” Crowley said, suddenly thinking of a way this new, unlikely ally may prove useful, “you wouldn’t happen to know where they keep a certain flaming sword?”

 

~~***~~

 

“Do you trust her?” Aziraphale asked.

Crowley’s mouth twisted in thought. “I think so,” he said. Then, firmer: “Yes.”

“Because she likes the Earth?” Aziraphale prompted.

“Sort of,” the former demon said. “But also because she calls me Crowley.”

Aziraphale blinked at him.

“No one else calls me that,” Crowley explained. “They all say ‘Redeemed’ or some such. She called me by my actual name.”

Aziraphale wasn’t sure how much that really mattered, but he supposed it might be indicative of her seeing Crowley as a person more than as a pawn in God’s ineffable game of angels and demons. In any case, he wasn’t able to meet this Kazariel personally while he was still trapped in his heaven, so he had to rely on Crowley’s judgment.

“If you think she’s trustworthy, and if she’s willing to help out, I don’t see why we shouldn’t let her,” Aziraphale said. “We can use all the help we can get, and having an angel on our side who’s not bound to draw a lot of attention would be an asset.”

Crowley nodded agreement. “I looked up that book you were telling me about, when I was at the library,” he said. “Less of a book and more of a collection of papers, really. I think we may still have a chance, though.”

Aziraphale frowned. Not this again, surely? “Crowley, one of those angels _died_ , do you really want to risk that?”

“No, but they were _both angels_ , see?” Crowley said eagerly, moving to set the satchel down on his chair at the table. “Two angelic souls filled with power fighting over a single corporation. This would be an angel and a _human_ —much less danger there, because there’s less power floating around to cause damage.”

“That doesn’t mean it still wouldn’t be fatal,” Aziraphale argued.

“But it would probably take longer, yeah?” Crowley said. “They got eighteen minutes, it said. _Eighteen minutes_. That’s a hell of a long time, when you think about it. Let’s say that, since you’re a human, that means we’d last twenty-five minutes. All we’d have to do is make it from where Raphael makes the corporations—which is pretty close to one of the edges of Heaven—to Earth, and then we could reverse the spell straight away. If we’re quick about it, that shouldn’t take more than, what, ten or fifteen minutes?”

Aziraphale stared at him, aghast. Crowley might be talking sense, but there was still a significant chance of critical mistakes or unforeseen complications somewhere along the line—and if not here, then with one of the other spells they’d have to execute flawlessly—and all for what? So Aziraphale could be immortal again, and live on Earth? So he could go to the Ritz again, and attend Bert and Donnie’s wedding in person? Staying here might be far from a perfect solution, but it was better to be trapped here, even if Crowley only visited sporadically, than to have one or both of them wind up dead.

“It’s still _extremely_ dangerous,” Aziraphale said. “And what if someone tries to stop us—if we can’t even make it out of Heaven before the minutes are up?”

“Then we’ll stop the spell early,” Crowley said with a shrug. “Plead innocent, I suppose, and live to fight another day.”

“If we make an attempt to escape and don’t succeed,” Aziraphale pointed out, “they’re never going to let you back in here. The archangels might even have us executed.”

Crowley shook his head. “Maybe before, yeah, but now? A lot of them think I’m God’s personal envoy from on high or some such rubbish. They wouldn’t dare execute me, and I’d make it very clear they oughtn’t go after you either.”

 _Precisely_ , Aziraphale thought to himself. _You’re protected—safe. Why would you risk that?_

“Besides,” Crowley continued, “if we don’t try now, will we ever? We could comb through books for years, but that doesn’t mean we’d find a better solution. You said it yourself—no one’s ever done this before. No one’s written a handy instruction manual on how to escape Heaven. We’re going to end up guessing anyway.”

“But we _are_ safe already,” Aziraphale protested. “We’d be throwing ourselves in harm’s way deliberately.”

“Safe, certainly,” Crowley agreed, “but how great is Heaven anyway? Not a lot to do, no ducks or anything, rubbish food…”

Aziraphale looked down at the table. He knew Crowley had good points, but he also knew that if he agreed and something went wrong and Crowley got hurt, he would never forgive himself for having been the one to put Crowley in that position.

“Look,” Crowley said, leaning over and putting his elbows on the table so that his hands were very close to Aziraphale’s, near but not quite touching. “If you really don’t want to risk it, we can call it off now. I can try to find a way to stir up trouble on Earth so Kazariel will get assigned there anyway, and we can stay here. If that’s what you want. We can find a way to make it work.

“ _But_ , if you do want to get out of here, I honestly think this has a good chance of working. We can have as many backups and safeguards as you like, if it’ll make you feel any better about it. And if things go pear-shaped, then we’ll work from there, but at least we would have made the attempt.”

Aziraphale chewed the inside of his cheek nervously; it was such a tempting prospect. Being able to live back on the Earth, eating real food and feeling the warmth of the real sun on his face, interacting with the actual villagers and knowing that this was where both he and Crowley belonged—it really did sound perfect. They’d spent six millennia on the Earth; it was their home. Crowley had said he’d stay with him if he wanted to stay here, but he knew Crowley would always miss the Earth and, if he admitted it to himself, he would too.

Aziraphale let out a long sigh. He had almost lost Crowley so many times already, he thought bleakly, and if Crowley was really going to make the commitment to stay with him, then he deserved to be in the world he loved so much—they both did.

Aziraphale met Crowley’s eye. “I want _at least three_ safeguards on each part.”


	9. Exodus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the uninitiated:
> 
> A peristyle is a courtyard in a Roman villa ([picture](https://c1.staticflickr.com/7/6150/5967990522_70a63c92e8_b.jpg) of the peristyle at the Getty Villa in California, which is an exact full-scale replica of the Villa dei Papiri in Herculaneum, which was buried by Vesuvius).
> 
> A martyrium is an octagonal or circular freestanding structure, usually with a sarcophagus in the center ([picture](http://romechurches.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/07/costanza_1k.jpg) of the martyrium in (the Church of) Santa Costanza in Rome, which was built by Constantine the Great as the tomb of his daughter, Constantina).

Crowley took care not to scuff the painted lines and glyphs as he stepped into the circle. They’d been dry to the touch for several hours now, but though Crowley had had precious little firsthand experience with sigils and written magic, he’d had enough to know that even tiny mistakes in the forming of glyphs could have disastrous consequences.

“All right, angel, ready?” Crowley asked, carefully planting his feet and looking up at Aziraphale, standing in an identical sigil several metres away. A single white painted line ran along the floor between the edges of the two sigils, connecting them.

“Not really,” Aziraphale said, and Crowley could tell he was nervous. He wasn’t sure why; Crowley was the one who was about to divide his soul. By that logic, though, Crowley ought to have been feeling anxious and possibly nauseous, but he was surprised by just how calm he was. It had been a little over a month since he’d found Aziraphale again, and he was happy they were finally doing something to get back to Earth. He hadn’t been lying when he’d said he would have stayed with Aziraphale if he hadn’t wanted to risk it, but he was glad Aziraphale had decided the way he had. They both missed the Earth, after all.

“Okay,” Crowley said, looking down at the piece of paper in his hand and the two short lines of neat text written on it. He cleared his throat. “If this doesn’t work, angel,” he said, mostly in jest, “it was nice knowing you.”

Aziraphale’s expression grew distressed. “Crowley—”

“ _Animach lez bezoat alkoshot myne et ats me_ ,” Crowley said, deliberately pronouncing every syllable of the Enochian in his clearest voice. He could see Aziraphale in the periphery of his vision, shifting nervously. “ _Kaech nesh tia trea ta de koshariniche_ ,” Crowley continued, reaching the last line of his part of the incantation, “ _mosch aria._ ”

He finished and looked over at Aziraphale, who gave him a rather grim look and then spoke his part, which as far as they could tell just confirmed that he consented to what Crowley had said. “ _Animas kin._ ”

As the last syllable left Aziraphale’s lips, Crowley felt a drain on his powers, seemingly of its own volition, like someone had pulled the stopper in a sink full of water. He drew a sharp breath, reflexively trying to prevent his power from draining away, but his efforts were fruitless, his magic slipping inexorably through his fingers. Crowley began to panic slightly as he realised he had absolutely no control over stopping the spell if it turned out it needed more power than he possessed.

Then there was an even more bizarre feeling, a sharp tug somewhere in the depths of a core Crowley hadn’t even been aware he had until that moment, and his breath caught in his throat.

Then, just as suddenly as it had come, the drain on his power abruptly shut off, leaving him blinking and scrambling to mentally collect himself. His heart was beating rapidly in his chest and his breaths were coming quick and fast, as though he felt himself under attack. His awareness of his core had vanished just as quickly as it had come. He resisted the urge to pat himself down just to reassure himself he was all right.

“Oh,” Aziraphale said quietly.

Crowley looked up and found the former angel, who was gazing back at him from where he was still standing in the other circle.

Crowley cleared his throat. “Did it—ah—did it work?” He didn’t feel any different, but he wasn’t sure if he was supposed to.

Aziraphale blinked at him, mouth parted slightly. “Yes,” he said calmly.

“How—er—how do you know?” Crowley asked, looking down at his feet as he carefully stepped out of his sigil. “I don’t feel any different.”

He looked up from where he was minding his feet and saw that Aziraphale had left his sigil and crossed to him. One of Aziraphale’s hands was hovering just above Crowley’s elbow, fingers not quite brushing the fabric of his suit jacket. He hadn’t taken his eyes off Crowley this entire time.

“I…can feel you,” Aziraphale said, voice still quiet. “Your aura. It’s been so long—when I Fell…” Aziraphale looked at him more closely, but Crowley had the distinct impression that he wasn’t examining his physical appearance. “You’re so… _bright_ ,” Aziraphale said in a voice barely above a whisper. There was a hint of something unusual in his voice, something like reverence or gratitude.

Crowley wanted to say something, make a joke, maybe, but his mouth had gone very dry.

As though to compensate, Aziraphale’s eyes started to grow a little misty as he blinked and suddenly focussed on the Crowley physically in front of him. “Oh, _Crowley_ ,” he whispered, and pulled the former demon into a hug. “I _missed_ you.”

Crowley wrapped his arms around Aziraphale as well, understanding what he meant. When Aziraphale had Fallen, his aura had slipped outside of Crowley’s ability to perceive, but it had become palpable here in Heaven, where his ethereal presence was enough to impress his aura onto his surroundings. And as a human, Aziraphale had been unable to sense auras at all. An angel’s aura was the essence of who they were, and Crowley found himself wondering if Aziraphale had missed feeling his as much as he had Aziraphale’s.

“Okay, angel,” Crowley said after a moment, carefully convincing Aziraphale to disentangle himself. He saw Aziraphale was crying a little, though he was smiling. Crowley felt a sudden unplaceable urge to gently wipe the tears from his cheeks, and started to do so before he realised that was probably weird, and moved his hands to Aziraphale’s shoulders instead. “Let’s talk to Kazariel and your temporally-challenged friends,” he said, smiling himself. “And then it’s next stop: Earth.”

 

~~***~~

 

All of the arrangements had been made. Crowley and Aziraphale had combed over their plan at least a dozen times, trying to identify every part that could possibly go wrong and then determining what they would do in that situation. All that was left was to carry it out.

The rather hapless band of humans Aziraphale had apparently befriended were standing by to lend a hand, everything they thought they might need was carefully packed and ready to go, and Kazariel had arranged a distraction that would go into effect in the early hours of the following morning. Night never really fell in Heaven, but they thought that early morning might be the best time to arrive on Earth—still under cover of darkness, but with enough light from the rising sun to be able to move about. There would be fewer people as well, which would mean fewer witnesses if their plan went awry and they were forced to improvise.

For now, though, Crowley and Aziraphale were sitting on the sofa in Aziraphale’s imagined Midfarthing cottage, sharing the last bottle of real wine Crowley had brought. There was an unspoken understanding that they were doing this because there was a not-insignificant chance that one or both of them wouldn’t live long enough to see the sunrise.

Crowley wanted to spend their last night just sitting together, maybe recounting old jokes and tales, but Aziraphale still seemed to be working in overdrive. His fingers tapped nervously against anything within easy reach, and he kept getting up to run into his bookshop and double-check one of the maps or a comment in a book, or rifle through the messenger bag to make sure they hadn’t forgotten anything. They couldn’t use Aziraphale’s satchel for this trip, since it was only ethereal and would vanish as soon as they transitioned to the physical plane, so Crowley had brought a similar bag from Earth for this express purpose.

As far as Crowley was concerned, they’d already beaten every last detail to death a thousand times and it was impossible to prepare for every eventuality anyway, but if triple-checking everything made Aziraphale feel better, he wasn’t about to stop him.

After several hours of this, Crowley did convince him to come sit down again, so that Crowley could keep a closer eye on him while he fretted. He felt a rather strong desire to rest his head on Aziraphale’s shoulder—presumably that was the alcohol talking—but he thought if he did he’d likely fall asleep, and they’d agreed staying awake was the better option.

And though Crowley was perfectly capable of miracling the alcohol out of his bloodstream come the time they needed to depart, Aziraphale wasn’t, so after a single glass of wine he went and made himself an entire pot of tea instead, and started nervously sipping that.

“However it all turns out,” Crowley told him when Aziraphale returned from double-checking the messenger bag for the umpteenth time, “I’m really glad you—you know—weren’t really all that dead in the first place.”

Aziraphale gave him a look that was both slightly surprised and unfathomably kind. “My dear,” he said, settling himself further into the sofa. “You don’t need to say good-bye.”

Crowley looked down at his wine glass. “I didn’t get to,” he said, keeping his voice as level and light as possible, “…before. I want to…this time, in case—”

“I won’t leave you,” Aziraphale said, and put a hand on Crowley’s elbow. It was a reassuringly solid touch, unwavering. “Either we make it back together, or we don’t make it back at all.”

Crowley shifted a little, uncomfortably. There was a part of him that wanted to insist that, should the situation arise in which Aziraphale could make it back and he couldn’t, Aziraphale should take that chance, but he also knew that, if their places were reversed, he wouldn’t be able to promise the same. And it seemed like a rather petty thing to get into a row about, especially on this, possibly their last night together, so Crowley just nodded.

Aziraphale seemed reassured by this, though he did take his hand off Crowley’s elbow, which was a bit of a shame.

Aziraphale moved to take another sip of his tea and hesitated. He turned towards Crowley, holding his tea cup up as if for a toast.

“Here’s to one of the best cream cakes Harper’s ever made,” Aziraphale said. “And to eating another one like it, together.”

Crowley smiled and clinked his wine glass against Aziraphale’s tea cup. “To cream cake.”

 

~~***~~

 

The door at the bottom of the sentry tower swung open under Crowley’s hand with not so much as a creak. He grinned. “We’re in,” he whispered to Aziraphale.

The formed angel sighed from behind him. “The glyphs on the door said you only needed to be a principality to open it,” he pointed out. “So really you shouldn’t have had any trouble.”

“Hey, you know, it’s an auspicious sign,” Crowley said, not to be disheartened. “If the first thing we’d done hadn’t worked, _that_ would have been a bad omen.”

“If you say so, my dear,” Aziraphale replied soothingly. “Do hurry up, though; I don’t trust Ludwig and the others to not get into trouble.”

“You’re the one who said we should leave them in that heaven,” Crowley grumbled, but moved forward into the room anyway. It was small, perfectly square, rather cramped, and rather poorly lit, but it was clearly a miniature storage room and armoury, just as Aziraphale had predicted.

“Well, I don’t know where else I was supposed to leave them,” Aziraphale said, a tad huffily.

Crowley started poking through the piles of supplies and heard Aziraphale do the same behind him. In a crate shoved into a corner, Crowley found what he was looking for.

“This will do,” he said, pulling one of the flares free. Aziraphale turned and Crowley held it up. “Let’s go.”

They started back towards the door, where a small selection of weapons was displayed on the wall. Crowley exchanged a glance with Aziraphale and they wordlessly filed out of the room without touching anything else. Killing angels was what had made Aziraphale Fall in the first place, and even if Aziraphale was human now, neither of them wanted to risk it.

Besides, Crowley thought to himself as he followed Aziraphale back through the invisible door and into the heavens, the hilt of a sword had never felt very right in his hand.

 

~~***~~

 

“It’s been ten minutes,” Crowley whispered from behind Aziraphale, eyes on his watch. “It should be any moment now.”

Aziraphale nodded, keeping his eyes trained on the tiny slice of Heaven visible through the gap in the very-slightly-ajar door. The former angel drummed his fingers nervously against the top of the messenger bag, which had the ends of several rolled-up grey vinyl mats sticking up out of the corner. Crowley had procured them from Earth especially for the occasion, so that they wouldn’t vanish when they returned to the physical plane.

“Do you see anything?” Crowley whispered.

Aziraphale shook his head. “Give him a moment.”

They stood there a little while longer, the silence seeming very loud in the lobby-like chamber in the triple-bay gate.

“Twelve minutes,” Crowley said quietly after a long moment. “Do you think something’s gone wrong?”

“Give it another minute,” Aziraphale said, and that was when there was a loud, distant _pop_. Through the crack in the door, Aziraphale saw a streak of brilliant white light shoot into the sky and explode, trailing thick white smoke. He hurriedly took a step back and silently closed the door. He turned back to Crowley, their eyes meeting. This was the point of no return. The sound of the flare died into a fizzle and faded from their range of hearing.

After a long, silent moment, they heard voices and the sound of footsteps. Aziraphale found Crowley’s hand and nervously squeezed it.

The voices continued for a few seconds and then fell silent. There was the unmistakable sound of someone unfurling their wings followed by a sort of hollow noise that was characteristic of a lot of air being displacing all at once.

Aziraphale looked back at Crowley and held up a single finger. _One left._

Crowley shrugged and nodded.

Aziraphale moved his gaze to his watch and Crowley did the same, waiting as they marked the time. Give the guard who had just left enough time to fly away, gone to investigate the flare that Otho had set off…and then…

Two minutes.

There was a rather loud _bang_ , and Aziraphale eased open the door.

“—and _really_ , just look at those finials, you did them all wrong, what _were_ you thinking?” That was Ludwig, sounding half-haughty and half-disappointed. “You have _no_ taste in architecture.”

“Wow, this gate’s really something—is this pure silver?” Harry sounded suitably impressed.

“Halt! Souls—stop—”

“I bet this place has got an armoury somewhere, doesn’t it?” Alexander’s voice said. “And I do love storming a good armoury. Stole some very nice artillery back in New York once—”

Aziraphale pushed the door open further and slipped out, Crowley hot on his heels.

“Come back here—stop _moving_ —”

Aziraphale peered around a large, spiral-turned column to see the remaining guard running back and forth across the platform, trying to catch Alexander, who kept zig-zagging away. The angel made a particularly quick lunge for him and Aziraphale watched as Ludwig darted forward just long enough to pull—rather hard, it looked like—one of the guard’s wings. The angelic guard spun, trying to catch Ludwig now, but Alexander took that moment to tug on one of his wings as well. The angel spun again, drawing his sword with a scrape of metal on metal.

“Really, this gate is lovely,” Harry said loudly. “Luckily I’m the best lock-breaker in America.”

“Get away from there!” the guard said angrily, moving out of Aziraphale’s line of sight. He emerged a moment later with one hand clamped firmly on Harry’s arm. “Now the rest of you—”

Alexander darted towards the door on the opposite end of the gate, and the angel made a sharp detour towards him. “Not in there either, you pesky—”

As the guard moved away, dragging a rather meek Harry after him, Aziraphale darted around the pillar, Crowley a half-step behind. He ducked into the central bay of the gate, moving forward until he was standing right next to the engraved silver gate. Only an angel could open it, so he stepped aside and Crowley pushed it open. And, just like that, they were through.

Crowley quietly closed the gate behind them. The second guard, the one who’d gone off to investigate the flare, was visible behind them in the sky, a growing dark speck in the bright sky. Even as they watched, though, Harry—who had apparently freed himself effortlessly from the grip of the other guard—ran past and gave them a brief thumbs-up.

“Come on,” Crowley said, tugging at Aziraphale’s hand, and then they were sprinting out of the shadow of the gate, allowing the gently rolling slopes of emerald green grass to swallow them whole.

Since Crowley hadn’t been able to travel to many places in Heaven without drawing a crowd, and therefore hadn’t had the opportunity to visit their next destination, Aziraphale took the lead.

The last time he’d been in Heaven he’d been rescuing the semi-conscious Crowley, and now he couldn’t resist glancing over his shoulder every twenty metres or so just to make sure the former demon was still with him. And of course he was, following close on Aziraphale’s heels and occasionally glancing over his own shoulder. It was a bit of a pointless exercise because even when Aziraphale focussed his attention on the trees, hills, and roads in front of him, he knew Crowley was there, just one step behind; he could feel his presence, warm and steady, in the familiar glow of the aura Aziraphale had thought he’d never sense again.

They hardly saw any angels, which was a very good sign; Kazariel had agreed to create a distraction in the fifth circle and it seemed that the commotion had drawn most of the angels not assigned to duty. It was also designed to draw most of Raphael’s angels from the area around the villa where she created corporations, which was where they were headed next.

Aziraphale detoured from their current path so they could move under the relative cover of a tree line, the shimmering gold bark of the heavenly trees dazzling in its beauty. Aziraphale glanced automatically over his shoulder again to make sure Crowley was still there—he was—and nervously patted the messenger bag to reassure himself it was there too.

There was a part of Aziraphale that honestly couldn’t believe this was finally, actually happening—he’d escaped his heaven. They were en route to Earth. Their plan had gone off without a hitch so far. Was it too much to hope that maybe the future Crowley had painted for them wasn’t so impossible after all?

Aziraphale saw movement near one of the approaching hills and hastily dropped his pace to a leisurely walk. Crowley nearly collided with him, but Aziraphale only reached back, grabbed his arm, and drew him alongside, placing Crowley between himself and the road.

“Talk to me,” Aziraphale said. “Lovely weather we’re having, don’t you agree?”

Crowley looked confused for a fraction of a second, but then his face shifted into an easy smile. He casually unravelled his wings in the hopes of disguising the fact that Aziraphale didn’t have any. “Indeed. Always bright and sunny. I wonder how the trees grow, though, without water?”

“Divinity,” Aziraphale supplied helpfully. The angel he’d spotted was staying on the path and seemed thoroughly interested in her own business, so Aziraphale kept talking, pretending the two of them were merely out for a nice stroll beside the trees. “Rather ironic, I suppose, given that you grew your own plants using diabolical means.”

“Those weren’t diabolical means,” Crowley said, keeping his tone perfectly light and pleasant. “They were perfectly ordinary means.”

“You threw out the ones that underperformed.”

“Nah, I just wanted them to think that,” Crowley said, completely unflustered. “Gave ’em to the old lady with the flat below mine. They always seemed to be doing all right when I dropped off another one—not as lush as when they were mine, of course, but I suppose they were happy enough.”

Aziraphale turned his head and gave Crowley a surprised look. “What—really?”

“No,” Crowley said, just as cheerfully. “I threw them into a skip.”

Aziraphale made a horrified sound, and might have stopped walking entirely if the angel hadn’t been passing them at just that moment, and any deviation from their course might have drawn her attention.

“I’m kidding, angel,” Crowley said, smiling and giving him a light elbow in the ribs. “Of course I gave them to the old lady, where would have been the sense in tossing them out? And besides, you should have seen the look of surprise on their leafy little faces. And when I repotted them they even got bigger pots—lucky bastards—okay, let’s go.”

The angel was far enough behind them now, so Aziraphale quickened his pace, Crowley keeping step with him this time.

They peeled off from the tree line and skirted the edge of a rather large white stone building. Aziraphale led them through some hills where the grass was long enough to brush their shins, and it looked like no one had stepped foot there in quite some time.

“This is the longer route,” Aziraphale explained as they made their way up yet another incline, “but no one ever comes this way, so it’s a sort of back door into the second heaven.”

The grass beneath their feet grew slightly golder as they walked, glimmering like strands of gold leaf.

It wasn’t long before they joined another road, paved again with the smooth, rectangular white bricks. There was no one in sight, so they quickly crossed over it.

“We’re getting close to the villa,” Aziraphale whispered. “There are two main sigil set-ups, one in each peristyle, but one of them isn’t used as often, so we’ll head there.”

Crowley nodded; Aziraphale had already told him that.

It wasn’t long before the villa came into sight. In another bizarre adoption of Earthly architecture to suit Heavenly needs, Raphael had apparently decided to design her complex in the form of an exceedingly large and overly complicated Roman villa. Except Aziraphale had seen plenty of Roman villas, and this one had clearly suffered from the same baroque tastes that had plagued the reconstruction of the gate guarding the individual heavens.

It was not very possible for a building in Heaven to be darkened, but this one was certainly unstaffed. Kazariel’s distraction must have successfully drawn most of its usual inhabitants away. They muffled their footsteps on the marble flagstones as much as possible as they slipped through a back entrance and started working their way down a long arcade, the lush atrium lying on their left.

They did almost run into several angels, but each time one of them heard their footsteps preceding them and managed to duck into an adjacent room or hallway.

Aziraphale led the way down a long hallway until they found themselves beside the second peristyle. And here was another of the peculiar oddities that occurred when Heaven’s architects completely failed to understand the context of the architecture whose styles they were pilfering: sitting in the middle of the peristyle garden was a large, octagonal martyrium.

They crossed the garden, weaving between carefully sculpted bushes and silver lines set into the ground that radiated from the building in the center. Aziraphale cast worried glances over his shoulder as they moved further through the garden, scanning the arcades ringing the square peristyle. They were out in the open here, with only a few small bushes for cover, putting them at their most vulnerable.

But no angels appeared between the columned arches of the arcades, and then Crowley was pulling open the beautifully inlaid door to the martyrium and ushering Aziraphale inside.

They stepped inside the darkness of the building and took a moment to take in the space, Crowley quietly closing the door behind them.

Within the octagonal martyrium sat a perfectly circular ring of columns. These held up a round entablature that in turn supported the beautiful dome stretching overhead. Light poured down through windows in the clerestory of the dome, filling the space within the circle of columns and making it almost appear to glow. The area where Aziraphale and Crowley were currently standing, between the octagonal exterior and the circle of columns, was cast into shadow.

On Earth, this space would have been used as a mausoleum for the heroic deceased—often members of the imperial family or, more notably, Christian martyrs. Heaven was using it as the stage to re-incorporate angels whose corporations had been killed on Earth. It was sort of fitting, and also sort of insulting.

Crowley led the way down the two short steps into the inner, light-filled circle of the martyrium, looking down at the floor. Aziraphale followed him.

The four sigils necessary for the binding were inlaid into the gleaming marble floor in bands of silver, and the craftsmanship was incredible. Additional glyphs ringed the sigils, and Aziraphale knew there was more written magic scattered around the villa, all playing a part in a complex array of spellwork that allowed the interface—the four sigils inlaid on the floor in front of them—to work with relative speed and efficiency.

Aziraphale moved towards the nearest sigil, casting his eyes over the glyphs to determine which one it was. _Soul_ , read one of the glyphs, another _transfer_ , and a third _bind_.

“I think this one’s mine,” Aziraphale said. Crowley came up beside him and fished his mobile out of his pocket. He leaned over the sigil and took a photograph.

“Can’t hurt,” Crowley said.

The two of them moved around the remaining three sigils, Aziraphale working out which one was which while Crowley photographed them. Aziraphale pulled open the messenger bag and tugged out one of the several rolled-up dark grey vinyl mats that were tucked inside. He spread it out on the floor next to the caster’s sigil.

As Aziraphale had predicted, the sigil was a fairly standard one, since all it was doing was facilitating a transference. He carefully scrubbed some of the chalk marks off the mat and altered them until it matched the sigil exactly.

They’d tried Crowley’s standing-in-two-sigils-simultaneously hypothesis a week ago, and found that it had worked quite well. Now, Aziraphale carried the mat over to the corporation’s sigil and laid it carefully over it. Aziraphale bit his lip.

“That should work,” he said, and hoped very much that he was right.

“It’ll work,” Crowley assured him, walking over. He motioned for the messenger bag and Aziraphale handed it to him. He pulled out a slip of paper and tossed the bag gently to the ground a metre or so away, a safe distance from any of the circles.

Aziraphale moved to his sigil and stood on its inlaid surface nervously. He’d done this dozens of times before, of course, but he’d never seen anything that looked quite so alive standing opposite him in the corporation circle before.

“Crowley—” he began nervously, suddenly with a very bad feeling about this whole endeavour, but the unFallen angel had already started the incantation.

“ _Animach lez bezoat alkoshot myne et ats me_ ,” Crowley said, reading off the piece of paper in his hand, “ _lowegen et imiloucht tenertz mensner fieze, ver for inken va voel et sufyn._ ” He looked up at Aziraphale, and their eyes met. “ _Gufen neut_.”

And then, all at once, they were together.


	10. Together

Aziraphale fell to his hands and knees, shock coursing through his system. In front of him, Crowley’s fingers splayed across the inlaid silver floor. The piece of paper with the incantation on it fluttered to the floor nearby.

It was once said that the eyes are the windows to the soul, and as Aziraphale blinked down at his hands in astonishment, he did so with eyes that were a brilliant icy blue and slitted like a serpent’s.

Crowley felt like someone was trying to cram two feet into a single sock, and he was the sock.

Aziraphale could feel Crowley’s aura everywhere, bright and warm and intertwined with his own.

 _Aziraphale_ , Crowley began his thought, mouth dry, a little preoccupied with Aziraphale’s extreme proximity.

Aziraphale apologised without even forming a word in his mind, just the shape of the emotion. He tried to shrink away from Crowley, attempting to give him some room, but his sense of space was very bizarre and Crowley seemed to be wrapped all around him.

 _No_ , Crowley thought, and Aziraphale felt Crowley stir against him. Aziraphale’s breath caught as their souls shifted against each other. There was a slight sense of vertigo, and then it was as though something had flipped a hundred and eighty degrees, and Aziraphale had an even stronger sensation of Crowley—every inch of him, every tiny well of thought and emotion, so close and clear. Though he couldn’t even begin to process all of it, Aziraphale felt suddenly certain that he understood Crowley better in that instant than he ever had before.

 _Aziraphale_ , Crowley wheezed, and this time the thought was fully formed, hoping to get the former angel’s attention. He felt Aziraphale’s attention shift, focussing on whichever part of him must have formed the thought. There was an unspoken question there.

 _Breathe_ , Crowley thought; his throat had closed and wouldn’t open, fingertips pressing against the smooth surface of the floor so hard it hurt. _We need to breathe, Aziraphale_.

Aziraphale hastily took a breath, and his head righted itself.

Crowley felt Aziraphale move closer, if that were possible, and realised the former angel was instinctively trying to help him.

 _Just breathe for a second_ , Crowley thought, carefully enunciating each word of his thought, in case that would help. _We need to get our bearings_.

Aziraphale breathed. Crowley kept sync with him.

Their breaths flowed in and out, and after a moment Crowley lifted their head. They were still alone, the light spilling around them, demarking the circle of columns.

 _We should get going,_ Crowley thought. Aziraphale didn’t respond with a formed thought, but Crowley knew that he was in agreement.

Crowley started to push himself to his feet. So did Aziraphale.

Crowley stumbled, almost falling over again.

Aziraphale tried to steady them, but he only seemed partially in control.

Crowley thought this was sort of obvious.

Aziraphale felt a little silly for having assumed otherwise.

 _We need to work together_ , Crowley took the time to think aloud; their previous exchange had taken only a fraction of a second, flashes of emotion understood as well as words.

Without bothering to form syllables, they formed a mutual understanding of which limb to move when. They climbed to their feet.

 _Let’s go_ , Aziraphale thought, focussing his attention on the shadowed door of the octagonal room.

They only stumbled a little as they crossed out of the circle of light and pushed the heavy door open.

As they stepped out onto the grass of the peristyle, Aziraphale suddenly understood why Crowley hadn’t tossed the plants, and was moved.

Crowley flushed with embarrassment.

Aziraphale thought he was such a dear.

 _Need to pay attention_ , Crowley thought, forming the thought with more force than was probably necessary.

Aziraphale still thought he was such a dear.

They crossed the peristyle’s garden and slipped into the same arcade they had entered through, keeping a weather eye on the flashes of courtyard visible through the row of arches.

Crowley wondered where they were going, exactly.

Aziraphale shook himself. _Heaven’s nearest edge_ , he thought aloud, remembering the way.

Crowley knew exactly where they were going.

Aziraphale thought that was pretty handy.

Crowley thought so too.

They edged their way back out of the villa, heading for the side door they’d entered through.

 _Watch out_ , Aziraphale thought, sensing the aura of an unfamiliar angel. He stopped, surprised. He wasn’t able to sense the auras of angels, not anymore.

Crowley made a valiant effort to drag them out of view, but Aziraphale wasn’t cooperating. _Angel!_

Aziraphale shook himself.

They ducked around a pillar and into the shadow of a doorway.

The angel’s aura grew brighter and then steadily dimmer as they passed.

 _I felt that_ , Aziraphale thought, still surprised.

 _I did too_ , Crowley said; Aziraphale must have sensed it through him.

Aziraphale thought that was sort of weird but also that he was touching divine powers like those that had been stripped from him.

Crowley was sorry about that, and wanted him to feel better.

There was a tight, worried feeling in Aziraphale’s chest, and he realised that Crowley had put it there.

 _It’s okay_ , Aziraphale thought in Crowley’s direction. Aziraphale did not think it was okay.

Crowley felt even worse, and the tight feeling in Aziraphale’s chest grew heavy with guilt.

Aziraphale thought it was rather annoying not being able to choose what he shared with Crowley. He wanted Crowley to feel better, after all, and not worry so much about things he couldn’t change.

Crowley felt he should have the right to worry if there was something causing Aziraphale pain.

Crowley thought that probably sounded sappy, and took it back.

Crowley also thought it would be nice to have a filter again. Not because he wanted to keep things from Aziraphale, or because he wasn’t enjoying himself right now, but because he had plenty of thoughts that were stupid that he purposefully didn’t act on, and didn’t want Aziraphale to judge him on those. Was afraid, if Aziraphale kept looking, of what he might find.

Aziraphale didn’t think Crowley’s thoughts were stupid, and there was no need to be afraid.

Crowley thought that was a touch optimistic of him. He didn’t want Aziraphale to think less of him after this. Didn’t know if he could bear it if he did. He really wished Aziraphale wasn’t picking up on these thoughts.

Aziraphale didn’t know what he meant, and was a little alarmed at the direction things were taking.

Crowley felt a sharp pang, something like loss, and Aziraphale shivered as he felt it too, cold and icy.

Crowley hastily turned his attention back to the matter before them, before things got too out of hand. _Let’s just get back to Earth, okay?_

Aziraphale was still worried, but agreed and let it rest.

They moved out from the shadow of the doorframe and continued down the arcade.

They made it the rest of the way out without incident and started around the side of the villa, heading for the edge of Heaven.

Their heartbeat was loud in their ears, and the day seemed to be growing uncomfortably warm. Aziraphale thought that was probably a bad sign, and quickened their step.

As they passed a stand of trees, Crowley realised exactly what it meant to be mortal. It hit him like a tonne of bricks, and he jolted to a halt.

Aziraphale tried to keep moving but they only stumbled to a stop. Aziraphale reached for one of the trees for support.

Crowley was mortified.

 _Oh no_ , Aziraphale thought.

Emotion crashed through Crowley, rolling over Aziraphale as well.

 _I—I didn’t realise,_ Crowley thought, horrified. He had never wanted to hug his angel more.

Aziraphale blushed and told Crowley it was all right.

 _It is very obviously not all right_ , Crowley thought loudly. It was bothering him a great deal, and was wondering why it wasn’t bothering Aziraphale more.

Aziraphale felt conflicted about it, but was touched that Crowley cared.

Crowley was insulted that Aziraphale might have thought that he didn’t.

Crowley took that back.

Aziraphale felt bad about this whole affair and wished it hadn’t come up in the first place.

Crowley was still upset about it.

 _It was a long time ago_ , Aziraphale thought, trying to reassure him.

Crowley thought that it really wasn’t so very long ago at all.

Aziraphale told him he’d made his peace with it. And he was dead now anyway. It didn’t matter anymore.

Crowley continued to be upset. He didn’t think it would be right of him to not be upset, and didn’t understand why Aziraphale was trying to make him not be.

Aziraphale sighed. _Can we get moving, at least?_

Crowley agreed, because he could always worry about it later once Aziraphale was immortal again.

They resumed their previous pace, heading for the edge of Heaven.

Crowley just wanted everything to be okay. That was all he wanted. It would be better once they were home.

Aziraphale thought that he already was.

Aziraphale thought that he probably shouldn’t have thought that aloud.

Crowley was surprised to find he felt the same way.

They cleared their throat and pointedly paid more attention to where they were putting their feet.

The pounding in their ears was louder now, and Aziraphale was beginning to feel weaknesses in the corporation. Crowley shifted uneasily.

They were making good time now, moving in a relatively straight line away from the more heavily populated area of Heaven, cutting through rolling fields dotted with golden-barked trees.

Aziraphale wondered if Azrael’s guards had even noticed they’d escaped yet. He didn’t remember hearing the alarm.

Crowley felt like thanking someone for their exceptional good luck thus far, but didn’t feel like any of the usual suspects were appropriate.

Aziraphale shared the sentiment.

They were nearing the edge of the sparsely wooded area, and as they crested the last rise a small, neatly-trimmed hedge came into view.

Crowley wondered what was up with Heaven and their use of short, wall-like structures for marking the borders. It wasn’t like it was really going to deter anyone from crossing over.

Aziraphale knew that it was because angels had sometimes fallen off, and that was a bit of a nuisance.

Crowley thought that seemed prudent, but the idea of angels tripping off the edge of Heaven like they’d missed a step on a staircase was also very amusing.

Aziraphale also found it amusing, but thought maybe it was just Crowley who had been feeling that.

They moved towards the hedge and stopped just short of it. They glanced around, but they were still alone. They were beginning to develop a rather ominous headache, though.

 _Let’s go_ , Crowley thought, and unfurled his wings.

Aziraphale froze in disbelief and excitement, because _he had wings_.

 _Ah_ , Crowley thought.

Aziraphale moved Crowley’s left wing slightly.

Crowley tried not to read too much into it and, since it didn’t look like he could really stand on the hedge, he took a few steps backward so he could have a bit of a running start. Then he drew a deep breath and retraced his steps in a sprint, bringing his wings down just enough to propel him a fraction of a metre into the air as he moved forward. For a moment he was suspended in a strange half-hover, the tip of his foot just brushing the far edge of the hedge, brilliant white wings spread, looking down at the blank grey nothingness.

Crowley felt a rush of exhilaration that he wasn’t entirely certain was his own, and then he cranked his wings in and dove.

He snapped them out again almost immediately, hoping for a controlled flight this time.

Aziraphale hadn’t realised until that moment how much he loved flying. He tucked one wing in slightly and they executed a neat barrel roll.

Aziraphale had never felt more alive.

Crowley levelled them out but Aziraphale wasn’t done yet.

They swerved left and then right, the wind rushing through their feathers with the satisfying feeling of a comb parting silky hairs.

Crowley tried to pull them back onto a steadier route, but Aziraphale refused to relinquish control of the wings.

 _Aziraphale_ , Crowley chided. _Let’s get going_.

 _One more_ , Aziraphale promised, wonder in his thought, and tucked their wings in for a proper dive. The air rushed past their face, but the loud pounding was back again, followed quickly by a hot flush all over, and Crowley wondered worriedly how much longer they had before the corporation gave out—

Aziraphale snapped their wings open, intending to brake out of the dive and level off. At the same moment, there was a burst of pain near their right temple and grey static exploded across their vision. Aziraphale overcorrected in surprise, and Crowley reached out to try and take control of his wings.

Crowley tried to brake while Aziraphale tried to swerve, and one wing followed each command. There was a gut-wrenching feeling in their stomach as they careened to the left and fell into a sharp spiral dive.

Crowley switched to trying to flatten out while Aziraphale went back to braking, and they were yanked hard in the other direction. Crowley was starting to grow nauseous, wings protesting the sharp changes in velocity.

Aziraphale tried to correct one more time, apologising as he did so, but just then there was another burst of pain, this one along their left shoulder, and everything went white.

His regular tormentor was back, digging the blade into Crowley’s shoulder, pushing the tip deeper and _deeper_ , and he could barely breathe, and he just wanted to see Aziraphale one last time, more than he’d ever wanted anything—

Aziraphale was Falling, every inch of his wings burning with the most excruciating pain he had ever experienced, and he could feel his soul being torn apart as the Father he had loved and served for six millennia abruptly disowned him—

Crowley was Falling too, divinity ripped from him inch by inch, and he was sobbing because he was being cast from the only world he’d ever known, and he didn’t even know what exactly he’d done _wrong_ —

Aziraphale was pouring all the magic he had into Crowley’s broken form, struggling to heal the damage that had been done by the angel who currently lay dead not far away, but it didn’t even look like his powers were having an effect, and Crowley was so incredibly still—

Crowley was curled up on what had once been _their_ sofa, arms wrapped around Aziraphale’s journal and a bottle of wine within easy reach on the floor, the hole in his chest growing deeper with every passing minute, and he never wanted to feel anything ever again—

The corporation was wearing thin and they were out of control, wings snapping in and out as they spiralled towards the Earth in an unchecked dive, picking up more acceleration with each passing second—

Crowley clung to Aziraphale with every ounce that he had, and he realised that Aziraphale was doing the same.

 _Aziraphale!_ Crowley screamed, trying to pull out of the equally uncontrolled spiral of flashbacks. His heart was pounding hard in his chest, and his cheeks were as wet as they could be with the wind slamming into his face, but Aziraphale didn’t seem to be able to hear him.

Aziraphale was sitting in a pew near the front of the small church, fingers locked around the mirror in his hands as he begged Crowley to stop, but Crowley couldn’t hear him, continuing to tear out his beautiful feathers one by one—

Crowley was hauling a soaked and ice-cold Aziraphale to the door of Newt and Anathema’s cottage, hoping against hope that they’d let them in, because he could barely keep his feet and Aziraphale was so _cold—_

Aziraphale’s hand was locked around Crowley’s wrist, and for the first time he was staring his own death straight in the face, because now he had _three to ten years_ hanging over him—

Crowley was sitting across from Adam, the tears he couldn’t shed pricking at his eyes, pleading with the Antichrist to do whatever was necessary to save Aziraphale, and offering his own life as payment—

 _No_ , Aziraphale whispered, his grip on Crowley redoubling, because he had never wanted Crowley to take that terrible burden off him, and _Crowley had promised_.

 _I’m sorry_ , Crowley rasped in response. _I couldn’t do it—you were dying—_

They pulled up, wings straining, and their spiral started to steady. They were very close to the Earth now, intricate grids of city lights sprawled beneath them, crisscrossing Europe. They angled their wings towards London. The corporation was burning even hotter now, needles of pain erupting all over their skin.

 _You promised you wouldn’t try to save me_ , Aziraphale thought angrily.

Crowley focussed on aiming them at Soho, guilt already bearing down on him. He hadn’t meant to break the promise he had made to Aziraphale—and God Himself knew Crowley had broken _so_ many promises—but there had been no way he could stand by and watch Aziraphale die without trying everything in his power to stop it from happening. He had begged Adam to save Aziraphale and take anything he wanted from Crowley in return, and though the Antichrist had turned him down, Crowley knew that he would never have been able to live with himself afterwards if there had been any chance he could have saved the one person who meant more to him than anything in the world, and he hadn’t taken it.

Aziraphale had a moment to register surprise and something like understanding before the Earth ascended rapidly to meet them. Crowley realised they were too far south and hastily corrected, but they were still going far too fast from their dive.

They hit.

 

~~***~~

 

Water surged over Crowley’s head and his limbs locked. Pain danced along his chest, growing stronger with every second.

Slowly their motion was arrested and Aziraphale began kicking for the surface. Crowley joined him. Or maybe Aziraphale joined him; he wasn’t sure where he ended and Aziraphale began anymore.

The water was chilly but apparently not all that deep, because it wasn’t long before their head broke the surface.

Crowley spluttered and spat out a mouthful of water, sucking in air instead. Aziraphale started kicking towards a nearby shoreline.

Their feet brushed sand and they staggered out of the pond. Trees and bushes scattered the area around them, divided by neat paths, everything dark in the pre-dawn light.

One of them recognised it exhaustedly as St James’s.

Crowley looked around, shaking water off his arms. He opened his mouth to spit out a little more of the foul-tasting water, but a sharp breath escaped instead as his stomach convulsed.

Aziraphale staggered, an incredibly tight feeling spreading over his chest.

 _The corporation won’t last much longer_ , Crowley thought with a burst of panic. _We need to get unbound_.

Aziraphale felt around for the messenger bag, but it was gone. He realised dimly that they’d forgotten to pick it up when they’d left the martyrium.

 _Bugger_ , Crowley thought.

Aziraphale cast his eyes around the park.

 _St James’s_ , Crowley thought hastily. _Soho. The bookshop._ They had supplies there, enough to recreate the sigils, and it wasn’t far.

They broke into a trot, still dripping water everywhere, moving quickly in the predawn darkness towards Soho.

Crowley thought the world was beautiful—and it had been so very long since he’d last seen it in person.

A moment later, Crowley realised that hadn’t been his thought at all.

 _Faster_ , Crowley rasped. _Binding is beginning to break down—_

Aziraphale picked up the pace, soon settling into a sprint, Crowley’s shoes squeaking wetly against the asphalt of Regent Street. The corporation was burning with fever, and it was beginning to scramble Aziraphale’s thoughts. A passing jogger gave them a rather concerned look but Crowley barely registered his presence.

Was it here that Aziraphale needed to turn, or was it the next street? He didn’t recall.

 _Next one_ , Crowley told him, breathing heavily. He seemed to be bearing the brunt of the corporation’s pain.

 _Hold on, angel_ , Aziraphale told him distractedly, and didn’t notice when Crowley shifted against him in surprise.

The movement seemed to antagonise the corporation further, and Aziraphale missed a step. Crowley dragged in another breath, but it felt like nettles.

Aziraphale forced them back into a sprint as he veered across another darkened street, doing his best to ignore the sharp streaks of pain that lanced up the corporation with every footfall.

And then Aziraphale rounded the corner and his bookshop came into view, lying quiet and dark. Crowley let out a pant of relief he wasn’t entirely sure was his own.

Aziraphale dropped his pace as he reached the bookshop, unlocking it with half a thought and pushing the door open. As he stepped inside, a massive tremor passed through him and he felt Crowley shudder. Aziraphale stumbled into the doorframe, struggling to keep his feet.

 _Zira_ , Crowley rasped, and even his thoughts sounded laboured, _my…dear…do the spell. I’ll take care of the rest—_

Aziraphale was about to ask what Crowley meant by ‘the rest’ when he felt Crowley physically cringe, soul twisting against his. At the same time, the pain of the corporation ebbed away.

Crowley twisted, trying to evade the pain while simultaneously holding it tight to himself, keeping its sting away from Aziraphale.

Aziraphale wasted no time in sprinting across the darkened bookshop, scrambling behind the counter and grabbing a piece of chalk from one of the drawers.

He pulled Crowley’s mobile out of his pocket, relieved to find that it still turned on despite being slick with water. And though he had never before successfully navigated to the photos app, he found he suddenly knew how to do so.

He pulled up the photo Crowley had taken of the sigils in Heaven and knelt on the bookshop floor.

Crowley was gasping for breath, feeling the corporation start to unravel. He tried to hold it together, knowing he only had to endure it for a few minutes more.

Aziraphale hastily drew a circle on the floor, drawing the points of a heptagram and connecting them with as much accuracy as he could manage when his hand was shaking so badly. Their sprint through Soho had wicked most of the water from Crowley’s skin and suit, but Aziraphale did his best nonetheless to avoid smearing the chalk lines.

Crowley’s soul was burning with exertion as he struggled to hold them together, begging the corporation he had loved for over a century to just hold on a little bit longer—

Aziraphale drew the glyphs with as little precision as he dared and then crawled across the bookshop floor, drawing a second circle only a metre away and repeating the process.

Crowley curled up against Aziraphale and clung to him, unable to form a single coherent thought. Tears sprang to his eyes as he felt his grip on the pain begin to slacken.

Aziraphale gasped as his vision blurred and the burning feeling returned to his chest. Hand shaking worse than ever, Aziraphale drew out the last glyphs. He crawled onto the sigil he’d just drawn, not bothering to try to make it to his feet.

“ _Animach lez bezoat alkoshot myne et ats me_ ,” Aziraphale gasped, head spinning, “ _lifto et my couf tel ne-ebu der shumelach_.” _Please, God, let this work_.

Crowley was barely holding on, shaking as he buried himself in Aziraphale’s aura and wished he would never have to let go.

“ _Korona em kilasta fisuit_ ,” Aziraphale rasped as the pounding in his head reached a crescendo, “ _elzo kovavit avataf._ ”

Aziraphale reached for Crowley—

 

~~***~~

 

Aziraphale gasped in a breath, rattled and disoriented. He took an unsteady half-step backwards, vision spinning.

The pain evaporated in an instant, the remnants quickly ebbing away, but something was wrong. He was still reaching blindly for Crowley, and it took him almost a full second to realise that Crowley was gone.

It hit him like a blow, and Aziraphale scrambled to collect the parts of himself that were left, feeling like he was missing several integral pieces. Had the spell properly separated them?

Aziraphale drew another breath, vision slowly steadying as he patted himself down dazedly, trying to orient himself. Then he felt a burst of pain from somewhere deep within himself, and he simultaneously knew that it belonged to Crowley. That must be the part of Crowley’s soul that Aziraphale had been entrusted with, then, safely in his care while still connected to the rest of its original owner.

Aziraphale’s vision finally cleared and he managed to steady his footing. He was standing in the first circle he’d drawn while Crowley was on his hands and knees in the second, visibly shaking, wings arched over him.

 _Crowley_ , Aziraphale thought, trying to reach out again before realising that of course Crowley couldn’t hear him thinking anymore.

He stepped out of the circle, drawing nearer. “Crowley,” he said, letting his lips form his friend’s name this time instead.

Crowley didn’t look up, and Aziraphale remembered that he must be ethereal now—Crowley wouldn’t be able to see or hear him. That would explain the presence of Crowley’s wings, too—they hadn’t been manifested when they’d reached the Earth, but they would have been ethereally present at all times.

The sharp pang in Aziraphale’s chest intensified, and he knew that Crowley was now bearing the entirety of the corporation’s damage.

On the floor in front of him, Crowley shuddered and closed his eyes. He was very pale, hair and clothes still damp from their dunk in St James’s, the glint of tears on his cheeks. Worried, Aziraphale crossed the short distance between them and sat down next to Crowley, on the edge of the sigil, as though his proximity could somehow prevent further harm.

Crowley was still for a long moment, wings tense, and after a few seconds Aziraphale felt the pang at his core lessen slightly. Crowley must be healing himself.

“Good idea,” Aziraphale told him.

The pang lessened further and, beside him, Crowley’s breathing steadied. Then Crowley’s eyes flickered open and he sat back on the floor. He wiped at his cheeks with the back of his hand and sniffed, sounding exhausted and miserable.

Crowley raised his head next, and from the way his eyes went directly to the sigil opposite him, and then roved around at the bookshop, Aziraphale knew Crowley was looking for him.

“I’m here, my dear,” Aziraphale told him. “It worked.” He didn’t like how much this was beginning to feel like the year he’d been trapped in Heaven, watching Crowley grieve, trying to speak to him while knowing Crowley couldn’t hear a word he was saying.

“Aziraphale?” Crowley rasped, as though he too expected an answer.

“Right here,” Aziraphale said again, and tried to touch him on the shoulder. He met a sort of half-resistance that he supposed was himself interacting with whatever part of Crowley was ethereally present.

Crowley didn’t seem to notice, but he did let out a long breath. “Let’s never do that again, huh, angel?”

Aziraphale’s mouth twitched into a half-smile.

Crowley grimaced and forced himself to his feet. It looked like it hurt—Aziraphale could still feel a dull ache in his core—but Crowley only walked out of the sigil. He found the piece of chalk Aziraphale had discarded and knelt back down a metre or so away. He drew a large circle.

“Oh, no, Crowley, don’t worry about it,” Aziraphale said hastily, following him. Crowley was preparing the spell that would bring Aziraphale into the physical plane, but he knew it took quite a bit of effort and Crowley needed to focus on healing himself first. “Really,” Aziraphale added.

Crowley, of course, ignored him and started carefully laying out the primary lines of the sigil. Aziraphale sighed and took a spot nearby, watching him. Crowley worked slower than Aziraphale had, taking care to make sure the lines were perfectly straight and repeatedly consulting the photo on his mobile.

Several times, Crowley paused long enough to spend another moment healing himself, though he never took as long as Aziraphale would have liked.

Crowley finished the sigil and moved to another spot a few metres away, beginning to painstakingly draw the second sigil.

“It’ll just be a moment, angel,” Crowley said in a voice tinged with exhaustion, addressing his words to the floor in front of him.

“Please, Crowley, it can wait,” Aziraphale said again, but Crowley continued with the sigil. Aziraphale was beginning to wonder anxiously if the spell would take too much out of Crowley, particularly in his current state—they hadn’t been able to test what sort of drain it would be.

Crowley finished the last glyph and spent a long moment looking between the sigil and the image on his mobile. When he was done, he dragged himself to his feet and walked back to the first sigil. He double-checked that one too, as well as the band of lines he’d drawn connecting them, and then carefully stepped into one of the circles. He turned to face the other sigil.

“All right,” Crowley said in that same, slightly tired voice. “Stand in that circle, Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale bit his lip. There was a part of him that wanted to refuse in order to allow Crowley some time to recuperate, but he thought his failure to appear might just worry Crowley and cause more harm than good. He walked into the circle.

Crowley gave him a few more seconds, breathing deeply. “You in the circle?” he asked, and paused for a moment, as though waiting for a response. “Okay, I’m going to start now.”

Aziraphale’s mouth twisted in worry as Crowley started speaking the words, which he had memorised.

“ _Animach lez bezoat alkoshot myne et ats me,_ ” Crowley said, “ _la zeez etou byte tracht enochoch._ ” He took a deep breath, eyes locked very close to where Aziraphale was standing in the circle. “ _Vo tyte ley tomartyze_.”

A very bizarre sensation of being pressed in some sideways direction rolled over Aziraphale, accompanied by a surprisingly heavy, solid feeling everywhere. At the same moment, Crowley’s wings faded from Aziraphale’s view and Crowley gasped and swayed alarmingly, reaching for support that wasn’t there.

Aziraphale hurried forward, seeing Crowley’s eyes latch onto him as he crossed the few metres between them and grabbed onto the former demon’s reassuringly solid shoulders.

“Angel,” Crowley rasped, hands closing around Aziraphale’s arms even as he started to collapse.

“No, no, hang on, Crowley—” Aziraphale said urgently, doing his best to hold him upright.

“Can’t keep this up for long,” Crowley gasped, one of his hands moving to Aziraphale’s shoulder and clinging to his collar. “Need to rest. Will bring you back as soon as I can.”

“Take your time,” Aziraphale said quickly, alarmed as Crowley sagged against him even further, shaking. “You should have waited.”

“Wanted to make sure—you were okay—” Crowley rasped, legs collapsing beneath him. Aziraphale carefully lowered them both to the floor until they were sitting on the sigil, Crowley breathing very heavily.

“Let me go,” Aziraphale told him urgently. “Let go of the spell. Heal yourself. I’ll be right here.”

“Angel,” Crowley rasped, meeting Aziraphale’s eyes with what looked like a tremendous effort. “Welcome back to Earth.”

Aziraphale felt a hint of a smile cross his face, and then Crowley let him go.


	11. Earth

There was a loud knocking coming from downstairs somewhere.

Crowley rolled over in the bed, burying his head in the covers. He was still so tired.

The knocking came again, more insistently, and Crowley resigned himself to the fact that he would have to go see what was the matter.

Sighing, Crowley opened his eyes and sat up stiffly. He glanced towards the window of the bedroom above the bookshop, where he’d fallen asleep; it looked like twilight, or perhaps dawn. He glanced down at his watch and confirmed the former—he must have dozed the whole day away. ‘Doze’ was a little generous, though—it had felt more like blacking out when he’d collapsed onto the bed, muttering something about being all right to an unseen Aziraphale he wasn’t even sure was within earshot.

The knocking had stopped, but Crowley realised who it probably was. Unless the plan had gone awry, that was.

Crowley felt himself wake up considerably, then, and he quickly stood up, brushing off his very rumpled and still slightly damp suit jacket. He miracled it dry the rest of the way as he moved towards the door and headed for the stairs.

He crept down them cautiously, feeling for auras.

He caught a slight impression of Aziraphale and paused in surprise. He supposed he must be sensing him through the bit of his soul he’d given Aziraphale. It felt like he was relatively close.

Crowley glanced around the stairwell, wondering exactly where his friend was standing.

There was the sound of the door to the bookshop closing, accompanied by the telltale tinkle of a bell. Crowley turned his head back around, returning his attention to searching for another aura.

“Crowley?” called a familiar female voice, and Crowley felt himself relax.

He glanced over his shoulder as though to make sure Aziraphale realised who it was, and then started down the stairs.

“Here,” he said, walking out onto the main floor of the bookshop to see Kazariel standing near the door, holding something long and flat and wrapped in cloth. “You made it all right.”

“Of course _I_ did,” Kazariel said, looking him up and down as he approached. “You’re the one who should have been caught before you left the third heaven. They didn’t even _sound the alarm_ , did you notice?” She sounded quite cheerful about the whole thing.

“How long did it take them to realise we were gone?” Crowley asked. “Your distraction worked terrifically, by the way; we barely saw anyone.”

“They literally only realised an hour ago,” Kazariel said, sounding extremely pleased with herself. “They were all so busy trying to stop a riot in the fifth circle, they didn’t even notice!”

Crowley blinked at her. “You said you were going to stage a protest!”

“A protest _and_ a counter-protest,” Kazariel corrected smugly. “Everyone had started to coalesce into two camps, like I’d said; your return to divinity really divided loyalties, and the archangels didn’t unanimously agree on what should be done. It was unprecedented. So I talked to your most ardent supporters—the ones who think God sent you as a message—and convinced them that if enough of them grouped together outside Michael’s stupid audience hall in the fifth heaven, Jophiel and Gabriel would have to listen to them. And _then_ I went to your most ardent _opposers_ , and told them your supporters were going to be protesting in the fifth heaven!”

“You _didn’t_ ,” said Crowley, who was still rather uncomfortable with having supporters and opposers.

Kazariel grinned at him. “They started shouting at each other almost immediately. You should have seen it. Anyway…” She handed him the wrapped package. “Easiest thing in the world, nicking this. I knew the guard who was on it.”

“They just let you take it?” Crowley asked, surprised, as he took the package from her.

“Well, a little bribery might have helped,” Kazariel admitted.

“What do you bribe Heavenly guards with?” Crowley asked as he started unwrapping the cloth, thinking the information might well prove useful in the future.

“Er, well, a feather, to be honest,” Kazariel said.

Crowley glanced up at her in confusion. “A…feather?”

Kazariel looked a little embarrassed. “You remember how I said I was one of the guards posted on you when Samkiel was in charge?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, I know he ripped out some of your feathers, and he might have…given them to me…to get rid of…”

Crowley blinked at her.

“I had never really seen a demon’s feather up close before,” Kazariel said defensively. “But this guard—he truly believes you’re on a mission from God, so I gave him one—he won’t be telling anyone anything anytime soon. Might even take the blame for it going missing if anyone ever notices.”

“That’s—that’s—” Crowley said, struggling to articulate exactly what it was. Disturbing? Genius? “Is Heaven _really_ that divided?” he managed at last.

Kazariel shrugged and nodded. “Honestly, something’s got to give sooner or later. They’re all starting to realise they don’t just have to do whatever the archangels say.”

“That sounds…” _like the Fall_ , Crowley thought with some trepidation. _That sounds like Heaven when Lucifer enticed half of Heaven to Fall._ Had he set yet another Fall in motion? “Horrible,” he said, mortified at the prospect. Aziraphale had once said that he thought Heaven might have seen him as the next Lucifer—but was that honour to be reserved for Crowley instead?

“It wasn’t so great before,” Kazariel said. “I remember when I first came to Earth—there were so many _choices_ , so many _options_. They teach you not to think for yourself, you know, and to follow orders without actually bothering to think about if they _make sense_. We were all soldiers, but when I came to Earth I realised that Michael and the others don’t actually know any more than we do. God hasn’t spoken to them in centuries either. So why should we listen to them? This reform has been a long time coming, trust me.”

Crowley stared at her. He didn’t have a good answer, but he had never expected—never wanted—to cause more angels to Fall. He wished that fate on no one. But there was nothing he could do about the state of affairs in Heaven now, anyway, he supposed; it wasn’t his job to save the angels from their foolishness, or to try to reform Heaven, and it certainly wasn’t his place to tell them that there was no value in exercising free will. Besides, though reforming Heaven was likely a worthy and heroic pursuit, Crowley had never been a hero, and didn’t want to be; he just wanted to get Aziraphale to Eden so he could live again.

“Well, good luck with that,” Crowley said, turning his attention back to the package in his hands. He unwound the last of the cloth, revealing a very handsome, very old sword.

“I’m fairly certain that’s the right one,” Kazariel said. “I think they were keeping the sword of the Guardian of the Southern Gate in the same place; can Aziraphale double-check?”

Crowley glanced to his side automatically, where he had the most bizarre feeling that Aziraphale was standing, but of course he saw only the row of bookcases opposite him.

“He’s here,” Crowley said. “Ethereally. We’ll be getting him physical soon enough. And it’s the right sword; I recognise it.”

Kazariel nodded, and seemed to pick up that Crowley meant Aziraphale was literally in the room with them. “Hello, Aziraphale,” she said to the air.

“Thanks for coming by,” Crowley said, wrapping the sword back up. “I really appreciate it. If there’s anything we can do for you…”

Kazariel shook her head. “You’ve already repaid me, trust me.” She raised her hands as though to indicate the bookshop. “I’m already officially stationed here. _Permanently_ , or until you two are caught, so just do me a favour and don’t get caught, okay? I’ll send up regular reports saying that you haven’t returned here, so if you’re looking for a place Heaven won’t look, it should be safe here. Given the turmoil, they may not even send out very many angels to look for you. Once word gets out that Aziraphale was in Heaven too—that’s not common knowledge yet—those who’re on your side will be even more certain you have Father’s blessing, because only our Father chooses where mortal souls go. None of them will want to go after you, because they’ll think you’re on Father’s business.”

Crowley nodded and shook her hand. “Thanks. Really.”

Kazariel conjured a small piece of paper, wrote out her mobile number on it, and handed it to him. “Finally picked up one of those mobiles; they’re brilliant! Give me a ring if you need anything else.”

“I will,” Crowley said, glancing at the number and automatically starting to fold the piece of paper in his hands.

“Well, good luck doing whatever you’re doing,” she said, heading back towards the door of the bookshop. She stopped with it half-open and turned back to Crowley, who’d followed her several metres. “I don’t know how much of this is our Father at work and how much is just us…but I never would have stepped foot outside of Heaven if I hadn’t been assigned here after you escaped.” Crowley got the distinct impression that, had she been wearing a hat, she would have tipped it to him. “So thanks for that.”

And then she was gone, the door to the bookshop clicking closed behind her with another flurry of bells.

Crowley turned to where he thought Aziraphale was standing, though he really had no idea if he was right apart from a feeling deep in his gut.

He hefted the sword, again safely wrapped in its cloth. “I’m going to take another nap,” he announced, “and then we’ll see about getting you back.”

 

~~***~~

 

The rain was cold again Aziraphale’s skin, catching in his hair and peppering his shoulders.

He just stood there, head tilted back, enjoying the feeling of the wind gusting more droplets into his face. He hadn’t seen rain for over a year due to Heaven’s perpetual sunniness and he hadn’t realised how much he’d missed it, the cool breezes and the sound of drops drumming against the pavement and pinging off passing cars. Several pedestrians clearly thought he was off his trolley, standing in the rain like that, and made a wide detour around him, holding their umbrellas rather haughtily.

He thought Crowley must be thinking he was acting strange too, but when he turned his head down and looked over his shoulder, Crowley was only giving him an amused smile, leaning easily against the doorjamb of the bookshop. He'd performed the spell to bring Aziraphale back into the physical dimension about an hour ago, and so far he seemed to be doing all right, considering he was continuously feeding Aziraphale the power necessary to remain physical.

“You about done out there?” Crowley asked.

Aziraphale turned back to the Soho street and took a final, deep breath of the heavy, slightly stale air. It was rather cold, the passing cars kept sending up cascades of dirty water, and none of the pedestrians appeared very friendly. The queue for the chocolate and coffee shop across the street snaked out the doorway, populated mostly by young people staring down at their mobiles and hiding under their umbrellas, refusing to acknowledge each other's existence. A nearby stand of newspapers narrated the latest polarising development in the Brexit debacle. It was Earth, all right.

Aziraphale smiled and turned back to Crowley, joining him under the eave of his bookshop. “It’s lovely,” he said, and meant it.

Crowley smiled a little, raised his eyebrows as if to say, ‘Don’t I know it,’ and held the door open for him.

Aziraphale walked in, trying not to drip water everywhere.

“Oh, and I found this,” Crowley said, gently tapping an empty wooden crate near one of the bookshelves with a toe as he moved to close the door behind him. “It’s from me; I posted the supernatural books back here, when I…er, gave the rest to Harper. Sorry about that again.”

“It’s all right,” Aziraphale said, coming over and peering inside the crate, which was indeed quite empty. “Did you move the books somewhere?”

“No,” Crowley said, sounding a little puzzled about it himself. “Some of them did have a little power—do you reckon they could have moved themselves?”

“Or Kazariel moved them,” Aziraphale suggested. “You said she was posted here while we were in Midfarthing.” He looked around the bookshop. “We could look for them, I suppose—as long as they’re here somewhere, it doesn’t really matter…let’s see…”

They split up and began poking around the shelves. Most of the books belonged to Aziraphale’s new collection, the one Adam had miracled up for him, and it was relatively easy to differentiate between them and the ones Aziraphale had bought more recently.

Aziraphale ran his hand over a row of spines, relishing the feeling of the textured material under his fingers and the knowledge that they were _real_ , in every sense of the word.

He strolled down the next aisle and found a few books sitting in a pool of sunlight on the narrow windowsill. He reached down to pick one up and it literally jumped under his touch, like a cat who’d been abruptly woken from a doze.

Aziraphale smiled and picked it up, turning it over in his hands. _The Nature of the_ _Heavens and the Earth_ , the spine read. Aziraphale ran a hand appreciatively over its pearl-studded cover.

“Ah, it’s just me,” he told the book. “You remember me, don’t you?”

The book stilled for a moment, and Aziraphale gave its spine a soft stroke.

 _Nature of the Heavens_ emitted a noise rather like the sound of wind sighing.

The other books on the windowsill were shifting now as well, and Aziraphale fancied they were inching closer to him.

“Yes, it’s me,” Aziraphale said, picking up another one of the books and carefully stacking it on top of the one already in hand. “What are you doing, sitting in the sun? Your covers will fade.” He scooped up the third book and pivoted, almost stepping on a few more that had stacked themselves up near one of the bottom shelves. He realised wryly that they must not have been able to reach the higher shelves by themselves.

“Now, now, we can’t be having that,” Aziraphale chided, finding a mostly-empty shelf around shoulder height and carefully sliding the three books in his hands onto it. “Come here, now, there’s a good book…” Aziraphale collected the rest of the heavenly volumes and placed them carefully on the shelf, where some of them immediately began to shift apart. He sighed.

“You want to be in a different order, don’t you?”

One of the books let out a plaintive trumpet.

“Oh, all right,” Aziraphale said, and carefully rearranged them until they seemed satisfied, each making soft humming noises or emitting pleasant smells of lilac or morning dew on grass.

When he had finished, he gave their spines another pat and told them to behave. He then headed back towards the centre of the bookshop, where he found Crowley with a pile of diabolical books stacked on the counter in the back, his elbow resting on the topmost one.

“They were hiding under one of the bookcases,” Crowley said as Aziraphale approached. “Cowards.”

The book on top hissed and Crowley ignored it. “I think we’re missing one, though. I remember reading it a couple of times, when I was trying to find a way to unFall you. Something about a history of Lucifer’s Fall.”

“Oh, I’m sure it’ll turn up,” Aziraphale said. He moved forward and tapped the top book on the pile fondly. “Just seeking out the darkness, were they?” he asked, leaning closer and running a hand down their collective spines. “I’m sure they were just looking for a nice comfortable shelf, weren’t you?”

“Are you talking to the books?” Crowley asked, raising an eyebrow.

“They are imbued with pieces of divinity,” Aziraphale said, “or whatever passes for it Below. They can understand you. They have…tiny little souls of their own, you could say.” He started pulling the first few books off the pile, and Crowley rolled his eyes but obligingly moved his elbow.

“If you say so, angel.”

“Here, be a dear and help me with these,” Aziraphale said, carrying his armful back in the direction he’d come from.

Crowley grumbled something but Aziraphale could hear him following nonetheless. Aziraphale found the aisle he had put the heavenly books in and started clearing space on the shelf directly opposite.

“Hey, Zira, here are those angelic books,” Crowley said. “Er, do you really want to put them so close together?”

“They lived together at the cottage,” Aziraphale said sensibly. “They got along then, they can get along now.”

“I thought you’d put them at opposite ends of the room,” Crowley pointed out.

“I did,” Aziraphale agreed, “so it’s about time they get to know each other better, don’t you think?”

“Er,” said Crowley, who still did not seem completely on board with them being semi-sentient.

“It’ll do them good to stop demonising the other side, isn’t that right?” He tickled the spine of one of the hellish books as he slid it on the shelf; it growled and emitted an unpleasant smell.

“I don’t think that one likes the idea.”

“It'll come around,” Aziraphale said confidently. “If it ever wants to be read again, that is.”

One of the other hellish books in his arms made a slightly alarmed noise.

“Angel—” Crowley began, but Aziraphale merely accepted the pile of books in his arms and started tucking them onto the shelf. He could hear some of the angelic books behind him shifting uncertainly.

“Now,” Aziraphale said sternly when he had finished, looking back and forth between the two shelves of books sitting opposite each other, separated only by the aisle. “You’re going to behave yourselves, you hear me? You’re not so very different, and if you just bothered to talk to each other, you’d see that.”

He could literally sense Crowley about to ask how he expected books to talk to each other, but Aziraphale merely turned and headed back towards the centre of the bookshop. Crowley trailed after him.

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Crowley asked. “We might need those books later, and we can hardly read them if they’ve torn each other to pieces.”

“They can’t do anything but talk from that distance,” Aziraphale said calmly once they were out of earshot of the books. “And besides, I’ll read them all later anyway.”

Crowley frowned. “Then why did you—”

“Just taking a leaf out of your book, my dear,” Aziraphale said mildly. “It’s exactly the same thing you did when you told your plants you’d toss them out if they weren’t green enough. Though I daresay this will actually be for their own good.”

 

~~***~~

 

“Oh, you poor thing, locked up all alone,” Crowley cooed sympathetically to the vintage car as he ran a hand along the Bentley’s shining black bonnet.

“And you said it was weird that _I_ talked to my books,” Aziraphale huffed, casting a glance down the well-lit interior of London’s very own Car Vault, an underground facility home to the automotive equivalents of pampered show dogs. “At least _they_ talk back.”

“She _is_ talking to me,” Crowley insisted, working his way up to the driver’s door and running his hand along the glossy paintwork the whole way.

“What’s she saying?” Aziraphale asked, an eyebrow raised.

“‘Get me out of here, I haven’t seen a road in twenty years,’” Crowley said, and opened the driver’s door.

“Are you sure that’s not you projecting, my dear?”

“Maybe a little bit,” Crowley allowed, his voice drifting through the open door as the vintage car purred to life. “ _Oh_ , listen to that engine. These people know what they’re doing.”

“You mean the millionaires’ automotive childminders?”

“Oh, don’t listen to him, he’s just upset because he didn’t get his tea this morning,” Crowley cooed affectionately, and Aziraphale realised with a mixture of exasperation and amusement that he was talking to the car again.

“And, what can I say,” Crowley continued in his normal voice, flashing Aziraphale a grin through the windscreen, “it pays to be rich. Even if I did just miracle it up.” He turned his attention back to the Bentley as Aziraphale moved around to get in the passenger’s seat, and Aziraphale saw him caress the steering wheel. “Come on, old girl, let’s get you back under blue skies where you belong.”

 

~~***~~

 

Eden was tucked away in the north-western edge of modern-day Iran, approximately halfway between the city of Tabriz and the Azerbaijani border. There was a fair amount of miracling necessary on Crowley’s part to allow them to board the first plane headed to Tabriz International Airport, including producing passports, visas, and boarding passes for the two of them. Crowley had been loath to leave the Bentley so soon after being reunited with it, but it would have been a long trip by car and the excess of elapsed time would have given Above plenty of opportunity to get their act together and come looking for them.

It was still a little risky, flying, but it was the quickest route and they were limited in options given that Aziraphale was, for all intents and purposes, completely human. He was only maintaining his physicality due to Crowley constantly sustaining him, and it had become clear that it was a continuous drain on his powers. He assured Aziraphale it was manageable, but lately he'd been tiring very quickly.

They’d been on Earth for four days now, and hadn’t seen hide nor hair of any angels that might be looking for them. As Kazariel had suggested, it may be that Heaven was too divided to organise a comprehensive search for them, which as far as Aziraphale was concerned was nothing but good news.

The flight was long but relatively painless, all things considered. After a pre-flight delay, Crowley fell asleep on Aziraphale’s shoulder and remained that way for most of the seven-hour trip. Aziraphale, who had a window seat, spent the first hour or so looking out at the candy floss clouds as night fell, and remembered flying. Not Falling, or their shared tumble from the hedge—that hadn’t been proper flying at all. No, the flight of his angelic days, carving out great spiral-shaped swaths of air with his wings and knowing that he had been made a creature of the air so that he could look over the Earth spread beneath him.

Crowley started snoring not long after that, and Aziraphale, not wanting to disrupt the other passengers, elbowed him slightly until he shifted enough to stop. The new position he adopted included a hand curled around Aziraphale’s jumper near his ribs, which Aziraphale didn’t mind nearly as much as he thought he probably should have. The bulk of the flight was still ahead of them, so shortly afterwards Aziraphale drifted off into an uneasy doze himself, waking every hour or so as the plane encountered a patch of turbulence or there was an unexpected noise.

The sun was just beginning to rise when they landed, the light filtering through the clouds and outlining the curved windows. Aziraphale gently shook Crowley’s shoulder until he came around, blinking at him with sleepy, golden eyes. “We there?” he rasped.

“Yes,” Aziraphale said, and gave his hand a pat.

Crowley still looked half-asleep as they departed the plane, head down as he blindly followed Aziraphale through the airport. Their miracled visas seemed to do the trick to get them through customs, and since Aziraphale hadn’t checked their lone holdall, they walked straight past baggage reclaim.

After a brief stop at one of the airport shops, they found their way outside and climbed into one of the cabs lined up near the arrivals area. Crowley took the opportunity to fall asleep again, but not before Aziraphale had given him enough meaningful glances for him to remember he had to use a small miracle to convince the cabbie to take them all the way out of the city first.

Even with that miracle, the cabbie refused to go much further than the north-eastern outskirts of Tabriz, and Aziraphale had to wake Crowley again so he could miracle up some money.

Thankfully, the hot, dry air seemed to wake Crowley up, and he stretched as they stood on the shoulder of the road, the cab only a retreating cloud of tan dust behind them.

“Which way, angel?” Crowley asked, looking down the road before them, which extended in a scraggly line into the rugged desert, ridgelines and hazy mountains visible in the middle distance.

“This way,” Aziraphale said, nodding down the road as he tugged the map he’d bought at the airport out of a pocket on the side of the holdall. He unfolded it and started struggling almost immediately with the massive sheet of paper, trying to find the area where he knew the Eastern Gate had once stood. The climate had dried considerably in the last six thousand years, but Aziraphale remembered when these hills had been green and bursting with vegetation.

Next to him, Crowley pulled out his mobile and poked at it. “It’s ahead and sixty miles north,” Crowley said after a moment.

Aziraphale, who was still trying to work through the accordion folds of the map to find what he was looking for, glanced over at his friend.

“Looks like I can miracle good reception,” Crowley said with a shrug. “And I looked up the GPS coordinates of where you said the gate was.” Crowley glanced down at his mobile again. “Google says it’ll be…twenty-eight hours by foot.”

Aziraphale made an affronted noise. “If someone drives by, we can hitchhike,” he said.

“We’d better,” Crowley said, yawning again. “I’m knackered.”

 

~~***~~

 

They did indeed manage to flag down the second car that passed them going in the right direction, and Crowley convinced the driver that they were harmless and in a bit of a hurry.

Although persuading humans and conjuring wi-fi were relatively small miracles, they did seem to tire Crowley even further, and he fell asleep on Aziraphale’s shoulder again in the covered bed of the battered, off-white Paykan pickup that stopped for them.

Aziraphale was beginning to worry that this might be symptomatic of the long-term drain on Crowley’s powers caused by sustaining Aziraphale’s presence in the physical plane. Whenever Aziraphale mentioned it, Crowley insisted he was fine, but Aziraphale suspected he was losing power faster than he could gain it back.

Their driver must have had a good knowledge of the area, because it wasn’t long before they’d turned off the dusty desert road and onto a surprisingly modern three-lane motorway. After two long hours of listening to the roar of the wind and road and wondering how Crowley could sleep through it, they exited and their trip became considerably bumpier. They’d only gone a few miles before the pickup began to slow and finally lurched to a halt. Aziraphale gently shook Crowley’s shoulder and was somewhat reassured when Crowley seemed to wake a little easier this time.

They weren’t quite to the place Aziraphale had pinpointed on his map, but this was where the road ended. Aziraphale thanked the man who’d given them a ride and waved him off as he executed a three-point turn and sped back the way they’d come, kicking up a cloud of tan dust behind him.

They were high into the rugged steppe now, folds of tan and red mountains in front of them, the sandy earth beneath their feet sparsely covered with weeds and dry-looking grasses.

“All right,” Aziraphale said once they were alone, turning to the northwest and adjusting the strap of the holdall on his shoulder. He looked out at the nearest ridge, the crest of which looked several miles distant. “We’re very close, I think.”

He glanced back at Crowley, who nodded and gestured for him to lead the way. Aziraphale turned back to face the rugged landscape, stepped off the narrow, rocky road that was the only sign of civilisation in sight, and started off into the wilderness. Crowley followed him, stifling another yawn.

They walked for thirty minutes, Aziraphale leading them in a zigzagging pattern up into the highlands, struggling to determine the exact location he was looking for. The last time he’d been here was when the gate had been sealed, and everything had looked different then.

The landscape grew even more rugged and impenetrable the further northwest they went, and now Aziraphale was starting to get slight tingles of what he thought might have been recognition. Did that outcrop look familiar? How about that ravine? If everything was covered with bushes and trees, what would it look like then?

“Are we getting close?” Crowley asked from behind him, sounding rather tired as he trekked after Aziraphale. “I’m hungry.”

“Well then, we should have remembered to pack something,” Aziraphale admonished, thinking that he would have appreciated some lunch as well. He should have picked something up at the airport.

Crowley made an unhappy noise but continued hiking after him.

“What I _do_ have, though,” Aziraphale added after a moment’s thought, coming to a halt and plopping down the holdall onto a nearby rock, “is water.” That he _had_ remembered to buy at the airport.

Crowley seemed cheered at the prospect, and they shared one of the pair of bottles, the water unpleasantly warm but still refreshingly wet. After a moment of catching their breaths, they reluctantly returned to trekking up the ridge.

Aziraphale led them up a broken, rocky hillside until his legs were burning and he was panting for breath. Crowley, if it were possible, seemed even less pleased about this development than Aziraphale, who was less fit and carrying the heavy holdall. Between their mutual lack of athleticism and the growing warmth of the day as the sun peaked overhead, they had to stop several more times.

“They couldn’t have—put up a big sign—or something—could they?” Crowley panted as they took a brief break, leaning against a boulder and sounding very winded.

“That would rather undermine the whole point of a _secret_ gate, wouldn’t it?” Aziraphale pointed out, adjusting the strap of the holdall where it was digging into his shoulder.

Crowley looked like he wanted to respond, but instead just panted as Aziraphale returned to leading them further up the steep rise.

Twenty minutes later, Aziraphale reached the top of the ridge and came to a relieved halt, sucking in deep breaths. Crowley was a dozen or so metres behind him, laboriously hiking his way around the scattered boulders. The sun was blazing down on them, with not even the relief of a faint breeze to wick the sweat from their brows.

Aziraphale turned to take in the spectacular view, and suddenly the landscape clicked into place around him.

“Crowley!” he called. “I know where we are!”

“Finally,” Crowley gasped, gaining the ridge behind him with the sound of stones clattering against each other.

Aziraphale turned, beaming, but his expression faltered quickly when he saw Crowley standing bent over with his hands on his knees, gasping for breath. His face was bright red, sweat rolling down his cheeks, but underneath it all he was frightfully pale.

“Do you—water?” Crowley asked breathlessly, sinking to the rocky ground.

Alarmed, Aziraphale hurried over and unzipped the holdall. Getting it through security had taken another small miracle, but its contents were too precious for Aziraphale to have allowed it to leave his sight. Rummaging around the item that would have certainly never made it through any self-respecting metal detector, he pulled out the second of the pair of water bottles and handed it to Crowley. The fact that Crowley wasn’t just miracling himself less thirsty meant he was really trying to conserve his strength, which Aziraphale thought was probably a bad sign.

“Are you okay?” Aziraphale asked worriedly. He was sweating himself, legs burning from the climb, but Crowley looked like he was on the edge of blacking out from exhaustion.

Crowley shook his head and unscrewed the bottle of water with a trembling hand. The thin plastic of the bottle crinkled as Crowley drained half of it in a matter of seconds. He tried giving it back to Aziraphale, but his hand was still shaking.

“You can have the rest of it,” Aziraphale told him worriedly. He was parched himself, but Crowley looked like he was about to faint from the heat.

“It’s…yours,” Crowley rasped, still holding it out to him.

Aziraphale sighed and accepted it, but he only took a few small sips before handing it right back. “Please, Crowley, you look awful.”

Crowley didn’t deny it, and neither did he need any more encouragement. He drained the rest of the bottle and just sat breathing for a moment. Aziraphale stood worriedly over him, letting his shadow fall on the former demon.

“Just…give me a minute,” Crowley rasped when he’d got his breath back, raising a hand to wipe the sweat from his brow.

Aziraphale gave him ten, waiting until Crowley’s breathing steadied and some of the flush left his cheeks.

“It’ll be cooler in Eden,” Aziraphale told him, hoping it was true. “And there’ll be more water. We’re really close.”

Crowley nodded and let Aziraphale help him to his feet.

Now that they had gained the top of the ridge, it was easier going. The sun was beginning its downward journey, still beating down on them as they headed west along the ridge.

“The view,” Aziraphale said, gesturing to where the ridge dropped away on their right. “It’s the same one the Eastern Gate had. We’re close.”

Crowley followed Aziraphale’s gaze and nodded. “It was a lot greener then,” he commented.

They curved around a bend in the ridge and the tingles of familiarity were back, but this time Aziraphale didn’t think he was imagining them. “Somewhere around here,” Aziraphale said, certainty in his voice as he looped back and forth. He could almost feel it.

Crowley wandered a few metres away and found a nice rock to sit down on.

Aziraphale made a few more circuits of the area, convinced they were very close but unable to pinpoint the exact location. He knew what he was looking for, but everything just looked so different now, six millennia of erosion working against him as certainly as climate change. After a few minutes he came to a halt, shoes scattering small stones as he raised a hand to his forehead and looked around him.

He turned to Crowley, sitting on the rock and looking rather ill, and suddenly knew exactly where the gate was.

“Crowley, you’re a genius!” Aziraphale said, hurrying towards him.

Crowley looked up at him. “Nice of you to notice,” he said, but allowed Aziraphale to pull him off the rock.

It was quite a bit smaller than the last time Aziraphale had seen it, and a little higher off the ground, but Aziraphale remembered sitting on that very same rock, white wings stretched overhead, shielding himself and the serpentine Crowley from the first drops of rain the Earth had ever seen.

Aziraphale approached the rock and peered down at it, running a hand over its rough surface. On his second pass, he felt a tiny incision in the surface of the stone, barely half a centimetre wide and approximately three inches long.

Aziraphale plopped the holdall onto the ground next to the rock and rummaged around in it, pulling free the sword he had once been entrusted with as a cherub of God, so very long ago.

The hilt felt unfamiliar in his hand, but it was undoubtedly the same sword. Once, he’d been able to light it with a thought, but it was quiet now, the blade ordinary steel. There was no power left in him to flow into the blade, igniting the steel into brilliant flames.

Aziraphale carefully brought the sword over to the rock and, positioning the sword vertically above it, slowly slid it tip-first into the slot in the stone.

“Only the rightful king of all England can pull that out,” Crowley said. Aziraphale ignored him.

The sword sank in about three-quarters of the way before meeting resistance. At the same moment, the world opened up in front of them.

Stretching before them, divided from the dusty ground beneath their feet by a slightly curved line reaching from the left horizon to the right, lay a verdant paradise. Lush plants filled the space, rising out of rich soil and spreading upturned leaves towards the sky, which somehow seemed an even more brilliant blue. Aziraphale glanced automatically over his shoulder, but behind him the Iranian landscape stretched as it had before, beautiful but in a barren sort of way.

Aziraphale turned his gaze on Crowley, and he nodded. Together they stepped forward, and Eden swallowed them whole.


	12. The Garden

Eden was every inch as beautiful as Crowley remembered it.

The last time he’d been here, he’d been terrified, sent by the Dukes to do a job he hadn't really had the heart for. He’d even considered hiding in Eden forever, safely out of reach of Below, but in the end he had followed orders and humanity had Fallen because of it.

Now, he was exhausted but with Aziraphale by his side and six thousand years of memories filling his head. He wasn’t here to cause more people to be cast from grace; on the contrary, he was here to save, once and for all, the angel he’d personally caused to Fall.

For a moment the two of them just stood there, side by side, looking around at an Eden they’d only had memories of for the last six millennia. This was where Crowley had met Aziraphale; this was where he had tempted Eve and eaten from the same Tree himself, and been shown the error of his ways.

His life had changed here, and in a big way.

He glanced at Aziraphale and knew the former angel must be thinking the same thing; letting Crowley into Eden was what had caused him to be demoted and re-assigned to Earth as a field agent, after all.

By mutual assent, they started moving through the Garden.

There was a strong feeling of being somewhere sacred, and not just in the divine sense, though there was plenty of divinity permeating the space; it felt pure, wild, and untouched, and like it should stay that way. The very soles of their shoes seemed to soil the grass underfoot, tarnishing something that had been locked away specifically to preserve it from the sin of the rest of the world.

They remained silent as they moved through the space, passing trees and plants whose lush splendour Crowley had spent a good deal of his life attempting to recreate on Earth. The animals here were equally innocent, birds calling overhead as rabbits hopped across their path, utterly unafraid. Every inch seemed _alive_ , and perfectly suited to being so.

When they had walked for ten minutes or so, Crowley cleared his throat, the noise sounding much too loud and rough. “The Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil is over there,” he said, pointing off to his right. He didn’t think he’d forget the way if he lived to be a million.

Aziraphale nodded. “I think the Tree of Life is over there,” he said, pointing off to their left. “The Garden was built as an ellipse, with the two Trees as the foci.”

Crowley nodded, accepting this information. They veered to the left.

By unspoken agreement, they didn’t break the silence again, both afraid to disturb what appeared to be an extremely fragile ecosystem; it seemed as though their very presence might suddenly inform the lion yawning on a nearby rock that he was, in fact, a member of a predator species.

They made good time, moving deeper into the Garden until any hint of the Iranian landscape was swallowed up behind them. Crowley was starting to feel a little less tired, and realised he must be soaking in some of the divine power lying heavy around them. He didn’t know where it was coming from, exactly—a remnant of God’s firsthand Creation, perhaps, or something about the way Heaven had sealed the Garden away? He was grateful for it, though—sustaining Aziraphale’s physical presence was slowly draining him dry. He could feel it even now, the steady trickle of power leaving him like water through cupped hands. He would be very glad when Aziraphale could eat the fruit from the Tree and Crowley could finally start recuperating properly.

They continued through the Garden until the narrow deer track they were following opened up, and they stepped into a perfectly circular clearing.

Standing in the centre of the clearing was a peach tree. It was tall and full, curled verdant leaves spreading over each other, twisting branches holding dozens of peaches apiece, each perfectly ripe.

The image of the Tree of the Knowledge was bright in Crowley’s mind, and he knew without a doubt that this was that Tree’s twin.

“Peaches,” Aziraphale observed, sounding a little surprised. “So it is a different fruit.”

Crowley took a step forward, and that was when he saw the delicate silver lines circling the base of the trunk and extending outwards for several metres. Wrapped around the Tree, with the trunk perfectly in the centre, was a very large sigil. “Whoa,” Crowley said, coming to a quick halt. “It’s warded.”

“What?” Aziraphale came to a stop next to him, joining him in staring down at the delicate silver lines. They were each hardly wider than a piece of twine, and seemed to be made of a sort of silver light, laid like threads around the base of the Tree.

“What do you think it does?” Crowley asked, beginning to circle the Tree. The sigil was a solid two metres wider in diameter than that of the Tree at its widest branches, meaning that there wasn’t a way to reach any of the fruit without stepping into it.

“I don’t know,” Aziraphale said, frowning down at the part of the sigil directly in front of him. Tiny silver glyphs dotted the interior of the circle, placed strategically around a tight web of intersecting lines. Aziraphale’s head tilted as his eyes roved back and forth between them, lips moving.

Crowley continued his circuit of the Tree, taking care to stay away from the edge of the circle. The Tree was beautiful from every angle, and its fruit seemed so tantalisingly within reach, the answer to granting Aziraphale the immortality he had lost just a few short metres away.

He walked all the way around and met back up with Aziraphale.

“Who do you think put it here?” Crowley asked. “Was it after the Fall of Man, do you think?”

“Would make sense,” Aziraphale said, shuffling a metre or so to the side to look at another bit of the warding. “Adam and Eve ate from the Tree of Knowledge, and the archangels decided to make sure no one tried to do the same for the Tree of Life…it’s possible.”

“Do you think it will kill me?”

Aziraphale gave him a sharp glance. “Don’t even think about it,” he said. “Neither one of us is going anywhere near it until I know what it says.”

“So you can read it?”

Aziraphale frowned, fingers tapping against the side of his trouser leg. “Parts of it. I don’t know what all of these glyphs mean—I’d need that dictionary of glyphs to be able to decode it.”

“But you can get an idea?” Crowley asked. If they had to go back to London, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to sustain Aziraphale the whole way there and back without breaking the spell off to recuperate. And there was a sizeable chance that, in the meantime, Heaven would realise someone had entered Eden, or that one of the swords that served as its key had gone missing, and take steps to prevent their re-entry.

“Give me some time,” Aziraphale said. “Do you have any paper and a pen? I’m going to try to translate it.”

Crowley didn’t, but he miracled some up for Aziraphale. The former angel gave him a worried look as he did so, and the effort did make him a little nauseous, but it soon passed.

“I’m going to go sit down,” Crowley told him. “Let me know what you come up with.”

Aziraphale nodded and Crowley crossed to the edge of the clearing. There weren’t any convenient rocks nearby, so he just sat down on the grass and thought about how much more he liked this grass than its almost unnervingly ethereal counterpart in Heaven.

Aziraphale started slowly walking around the Tree, eyes trained on the sigil as he took notes on the piece of paper and scratched at his cheek or nose with the end of the pen.

Crowley watched him and really hoped this was going to work. He didn’t know another way to make Aziraphale permanently physical, and to come all this way and draw so near to their goal only to have it pushed just out of reach—it was unthinkable.

Though perhaps, Crowley found himself thinking as he idly watched Aziraphale, maybe even if they couldn’t get to the Tree things might still turn out all right. With the excess of divinity hanging in the air, Crowley might be able to maintain Aziraphale’s physical form indefinitely. There were no Ritzes, he supposed, but there was certainly plenty to eat and drink. Maybe the original paradise was looking for new tenants.

But of course it was just as hopeless of an idea as when Crowley had first considered using Eden as a shelter from the rest of the world and the supernatural powers at work there. The gate was still open, for one thing, and even if Heaven was currently preoccupied with the divisions forming in their ranks, sooner or later they would sort themselves out and realise that the two of them had not only escaped Heaven but then promptly broken into what was probably one of the most secure locations on the planet.

So he simply watched Aziraphale as he slowly circled the tree, scribbling on the piece of paper every now and then, and thought about how grateful he was to have ever met him in the first place.

There was a faint pressure on his ankle and Crowley looked down to see a mouse with his paws on Crowley’s ankle, sniffing curiously at his shoe. His instinctual reaction was to recoil—a rather pitiful reaction for someone who had once been a serpent, really—but he caught himself. The mouse seemed completely unconcerned by Crowley's reaction, and climbed carefully onto his shoe.

“Er, hello,” Crowley said, wondering rather bizarrely if perhaps this mouse had been here when he’d last slithered through Eden, or if it was a descendant. It didn’t seem out of the realm of possibility that the archangels had managed to lock Eden in time as well—that might explain the incredible feeling of divinity, if they were temporally very close to the moment of initial Creation.

On the other side of the Tree, Aziraphale made an excited noise.

“What?” Crowley called, diverting his gaze back to Aziraphale. The mouse on his foot looked around too, but it seemed more curious than afraid.

“I think I know what language this is—hold on—”

Aziraphale fell silent and Crowley returned his attention to the mouse. It ventured up his shin and paused on his knee, sniffing at him curiously.

Crowley reached out a hand and very carefully touched it on the nose with the tip of his index finger.

The mouse recoiled a little in surprise, but then reached out and sniffed cautiously at Crowley’s finger. Crowley felt a smile crease his face.

The mouse hopped off his knee a little after that, returning to snuffling among the roots of a nearby bush.

It must have been almost forty-five minutes later when Aziraphale finally walked over to him, holding several sheets of paper covered in his handwriting and looking rather worried.

Crowley tilted his head back and looked up at Aziraphale expectantly as he carefully set the caterpillar that had been lately exploring his hand down on a nearby leaf.

Aziraphale let out a worried breath. “I don’t like the look of it,” he said as Crowley made his way to his feet, stretching a little.

“What does it say?”

“Well,” Aziraphale began, scratching at his cheek with the end of his pen again, “a lot, and in multiple languages.” He led Crowley over to the edge of the circle.

Aziraphale pointed down at the crisscrossing lines of the sigil, which looked like they formed an extremely complicated star with the Tree in the centre, the lines carefully angled around its trunk. “First of all,” he said, “those lines form a forty-nine-point star. Heaven’s sigils usually use seven-point stars—heptagrams—and Hell uses five-point stars—pentagrams. I’ve seen a couple of fourteen-point stars before, in very high-power sigils in Heaven, but I have never even _heard_ of a forty-nine-point star.”

“Okay, so it’s a _fancy_ sigil,” Crowley said.

Aziraphale cast him a glance that said he thought this wasn’t a joking matter. “Seven-point stars draw on the power of Heaven, since seven is the number of Creation—seven days, seven archangels, etc.—” Crowley nodded— “and fourteen-point stars draw on that power twofold. Which means that a _forty-nine-point star_ …”

“Sevenfold,” Crowley said.

Aziraphale nodded. “And then there’s this.” He pointed to the rim of the sigil, where two lines ran around the circumference of the circle. Inside that lay a line of text, curved to follow the contour of the circle, and past that another double line, above which the star design began. “Major sigils have double lines around their circumference because they’re drawing power both from Heaven and from the caster. This line of text here—” He pointed to the writing along the edge of the circle, which was in some language Crowley couldn’t read, though the individual characters looked rather like a cross between European blackletter and Viking runes. “This is a conditional statement. Whatever this says, it was too complicated to say in glyphs, or too important, since glyphs can sometimes leave loopholes if you don’t position them correctly.”

“Okay, so what’s it say?” Crowley asked.

Aziraphale paused. “I have no idea.”

Crowley looked at him in surprise. _He_ hadn’t really expected to be able to read very early Heavenly writing, particularly if this had been written after the Fall, but Aziraphale was an expert in this sort of thing. Hell, Aziraphale was _the_ expert.

“What does that…mean?” Crowley asked, struggling to even accept the idea that there might be a language that Aziraphale didn’t know. Books were written in languages, you see, and Aziraphale had read every book he’d ever laid his hands on.

Aziraphale bit his lip and let out a sigh. “It means it’s old. _Very_ old. Older than me, certainly, and probably older than you too.”

Crowley blinked and looked down at it.

“ _But_ ,” Aziraphale said, “I _can_ read some of it.”

Crowley looked up at him in surprise. “You could have led with that.”

Aziraphale smiled a little and shrugged modestly. “Really only a few characters are all.” He walked around the circumference of the circle until he found what he was looking for. He squatted next to the edge of the sigil and carefully pointed at one of the symbols with the end of his pen. “I’m pretty sure that’s the name of God.”

Crowley blinked at it and peered closer. It looked like a sort of backwards C, but squarer and with a little tail at the bottom and a tiny rhombus-shaped dot in the middle. “Really?”

Aziraphale looked up at him. “I think this entire ring is written _in the language of God_.”

Crowley met his gaze in shock. “ _The language of God?_ As in—”

“When He spoke,” Aziraphale said, “His words literally formed Creation. This is the written form of that language, probably the first written language ever. This predates the language of the angels—maybe even the angels themselves.”

Crowley went back to staring at the line of text. It really didn’t look like it had the power to literally channel Creation itself.

“Do you think… _He_ wrote it?”

Much to Crowley’s relief, Aziraphale shook his head; though Crowley had the tendency to be foolhardy and rash sometimes, he didn’t think even he would be stupid enough to step into warding God Himself had created.

“They think God invented the language—the written language, that is,” Aziraphale explained, “but it was mostly the early angels who used it. Why would God bother writing anything down, if He can just speak and it is so? And I don’t remember God saying the Tree of Life needed to be warded in the first place. Everything surrounding the Fall of Man was widely publicised among the angels, but I don’t remember anything about the Tree of Life, just that the Garden was to be closed off.”

Crowley nodded slowly. “You said there were a few of the words you could read?” he prompted.

Aziraphale nodded and shifted a little further around the circle. He pointed to two characters situated next to each other; the one on the left looked like a backwards F but with a slightly longer crossbar, and the one on the right looked like a rather crude pictogram of a mountain with a stream. “This one’s ‘angelic power’—magic, whatever you want to call it. And there’s another one around on the other side that I’m not a hundred percent on but might be ‘Heaven.’ And it says ‘God’ several times.”

Crowley looked down at the text, something occurring to him. “If this language is so old and rare, how do you know what some of the words are?”

Aziraphale gave him a smile that Crowley knew could only precede a good answer. “I have a book back at the shop that translates them all, of course.”

Crowley stared at him in a mix of relief and disbelief. “What, _really?_ ”

Aziraphale’s smile faltered a little. “Or, well, I _used_ to. My bookshop in Heaven would have it. I suppose my original copy burned during the failed Apocalypse.”

Crowley hadn’t properly mourned the loss of a book until that moment. “ _No._ ”

Aziraphale shrugged and looked back down at the sigil. “It’s possible there’s another copy on Earth somewhere. I think only a handful were ever made. Harahel probably has one.”

“So we can only read a few of the words,” Crowley summarised, trying to get something concrete out of this conversation. “And someone wrote them, but not God.”

Aziraphale raised his pen again. “Yes, and I think I know who.”

He stood up and started around the sigil again. He pointed back at the edge of the circle and the string of text bordered by two thin, silver lines on either side. “The outer two lines are for drawing power from Heaven and the caster,” Aziraphale explained again, “but this isn’t a sigil you activate by stepping into it and saying a few words—it’s been bound with magic already. It’s a trap, fully loaded and ready to spring at any moment. These inner two lines are what holds that power in place—and it’s an incredible amount of power.” Aziraphale pointed directly above the innermost circle, where eight small circular symbols were lined up, one of them sitting a little further away from the others, and larger.

“Those are the signatures,” Aziraphale explained, “of the angels who imbued this sigil with its power. Those seven are the archangels, I’m fairly certain—I recognise Michael’s and Jerahmiel’s. And this other one…” Aziraphale trailed off. “Given that it’s bigger than the others, I’d _guess_ that it belongs to one of the seraphim, but I’ve never seen a seraph’s signature before. It’s more of an official seal, really.”

“A seraph…” Crowley repeated slowly. Seraphim were the only choir above archangels, which meant that a single seraph wielded seven times more power than a single archangel. This gave them incredible influence and authority that could only rarely be rivalled. Above and Below were largely kept in check by the distribution of the seraphim—Lucifer had been a seraph, and together with another of the Fallen seraphim, Beelzebub, they were perfectly matched by the Metatron and the seven archangels. Crowley remembered feeling infinitesimal before the assembled archangels, and knew that this warding carried twice the power.

“This trap was _not_ meant to be meddled with,” Aziraphale said. “And there’s no way either of us could withstand it. Whatever this outer ring says…” Aziraphale gestured at it hopelessly. “If it says whosoever steals the fruit dies, then that’s exactly what’s going to happen.”

For a moment they both just frowned down at it.

“Here’s a question,” Crowley said after a moment. “You said the archangels made this, along with a seraph, and they wrote it in the language of God but God didn’t have a direct hand in it.” He glanced at Aziraphale for confirmation and he nodded. “Which sort of implies that God didn’t order it to be done, because again, why bother with all of this if He can just speak and it happens? _So_ , would the archangels, and whoever this seraph is—would they have had the authority to place what is potentially a _death trap_ inside the Garden?”

Aziraphale frowned and didn’t respond for a moment, which made Crowley think he’d made a good point.

“I was just wondering,” Crowley said slowly, “because humanity was forbidden from touching the Trees, but the angels were never forbidden, were they? Not expressly. I mean, the _demons_ weren’t even forbidden from eating from the Trees. I ate from the Tree of Knowledge myself, and nothing bad happened.”

Aziraphale nodded slowly.

“So let’s say some random angel walked in here,” Crowley continued, “didn’t see the warding, or didn’t care or whatever, and stepped into it, and _died_ —for a crime that technically wasn’t against God’s law. It would have been against the _archangels’_ wishes, of course, and that of this seraph’s, but that basically would have been _murder_ , right? This was still early—probably before the Garden was sealed, do you reckon? Humanity had just sinned by _disobeying orders_ —do you think the archangels would have risked _murder_ , and that of one of their brothers or sisters at that?”

Aziraphale pursed his lips. “You know, I think you might be onto something, Crowley.”

Crowley smiled a little. “All right, so shall I go in, then?”

Aziraphale turned quickly. “No! What are you—I should be the one to go, it’s me who wants the fruit anyway.”

Crowley frowned at him and quickly grabbed his arm in case he planned on doing anything rash. “But you’re human,” he protested. “What I just said— _angels_ weren’t forbidden from taking the fruit, but _humans_ were. If that sigil’s designed to kill anyone, it’s humans.”

Aziraphale scowled, but seemed to realise Crowley had a point. He looked back down at the sigil, frowning deeply.

“It wouldn’t make sense if it killed me,” Crowley said encouragingly. “And I’ll be quick.”

“It doesn’t matter if you’re quick,” Aziraphale said. “The spell will begin to take effect the moment you step foot in the sigil.”

“I don’t suppose we could…I dunno, I could miracle up a bow and arrow and we could shoot at the peaches and see if we can knock any outside of the circle.”

Aziraphale gave him a look that said he was impressed with Crowley’s out-of-the-box thinking, but he only gave Crowley’s elbow a pat. “A sigil this complicated—I’m sure they’d have thought of that, my dear.”

Crowley deflated slightly. “Really?”

Aziraphale walked a metre or so away and scooped an acorn off the ground. He walked back to Crowley and carefully tossed the acorn towards the nearest bough of peaches. It travelled approximately a third of a metre into the air over the sigil, and then, as it passed over the second set of double lines, it changed course and flew off at an oblique angle.

“Probably miracle-proof, too,” Aziraphale said, “but you could give it a try if you like.”

Crowley nodded and focussed his attention on one of the closer peaches, skin a beautiful pale gold just brushed with pink. He reached out mentally and tried to miracle it towards him. He felt a decrease in his already flagging power levels, but the peach didn’t so much as shift.

He shook his head.

Aziraphale shrugged. “It was a good idea.”

They both looked at the Tree for a long minute. Crowley was beginning to feel like they’d been in the Garden for quite a while, and didn’t know how much longer they could safely afford to stand around. “So I just go in, then?”

Aziraphale frowned at the sigil, and he could tell the former angel was trying to find some other way that wouldn’t put Crowley in peril.

After a long moment, he sighed and looked nervously at his watch. “Fine, but let me photograph the sigil first. If we need to reverse this somehow, later, I want to be able to decode it.”

Crowley nodded; this seemed prudent. He dug his mobile out of his pocket and handed it to the former angel. Aziraphale took it, folding the paper he’d taken notes on and tucking it away in one of his pockets along with the pen. He started around the circle, taking strategic photos every metre or so.

Crowley watched him, wondering if he’d just volunteered for a suicide mission. He didn’t _think_ the archangels would have been brazen enough to put a death trap in God’s Garden, not without His approval and _certainly_ not around the Tree of _Life_ , but what did he know, _really?_ He had already Fallen by then.

So he fixed his eyes on Aziraphale and drank in the sight of him, just in case.

When Aziraphale was almost done taking his pictures, Crowley did a quick circuit of the Tree, looking for which branch was closest to the edge of the circle. He would just step in—it looked like three strides would do it—and pluck a peach—that one, just there, with the beautiful pink blush across its surface—and walk back out. It seemed like such an uncomplicated task.

Aziraphale finished taking his pictures and walked back over to Crowley, tapping the side of Crowley’s mobile nervously with one of his fingers.

Crowley opened his mouth to say something, but Aziraphale just threw his arms around him and pulled him close.

“This is the _last time_ I let you do anything dangerous for me,” Aziraphale whispered fiercely in Crowley’s ear. “The _last time_ , you understand me?”

Crowley nodded and returned the embrace, hoping very dearly that this wasn’t the last time he’d be able to do so.

Aziraphale showed no signs of wanting to let Crowley go, so Crowley carefully pulled away.

“I’ll be fine,” he told Aziraphale as reassuringly as he could. He gave the former angel one last smile, for luck. Aziraphale returned it, but he still looked very worried.

Crowley turned towards the Tree and cleared his throat. He fixed his eyes on the peach he’d chosen and flexed his hands. He shook out his shoulders next, and then his feet, and then supposed he really couldn’t just stand here and prepare himself forever.

He took a deep breath.

“God, I hate peaches,” Crowley said, and stepped into the circle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have too much time on my hands, so you can check out a diagram I made of the sigil around the Tree of Life here:  
> http://improbabledreams900.tumblr.com/post/163052838168/the-sigil-around-the-tree-of-life-click-through


	13. The Serpent of Eden

For a fraction of a second, nothing happened at all, and then Crowley felt his powers stripped away from him.

Whenever he performed major-sigil spells, he felt a drain on his powers, like someone had unplugged a sink, but this felt more like someone had opened a chasm beneath him, or perhaps more accurately opened a door into the vacuum of space, because it was _sucking_ his power away from him.

He felt his entire power reserve deplete by half before his second foot touched the grass. The rest was draining away frighteningly fast, and Crowley had a moment of true fear as he wondered what would happen when he ran dry.

He knew he had no chance of sustaining the spell keeping Aziraphale physical, not with his power draining away like sand through an hourglass someone had smashed, so he roughly broke the connection off. He had a fleeting moment to think that that probably scared the daylights out of Aziraphale, and then his hand closed around the peach.

In the same instant, he felt his power run dry. The shock was incredible, leaving him feeling raw and like someone had scraped his insides with a rather dull spoon. He had another fleeting moment as he pivoted, the peach tearing free of the Tree, when he thought the spell had reached its conclusion.

Then it delved deeper, and he realised with a flare of panic that it was looking for anything else it could consume and throw into that chasm.

Crowley gasped as it struck his core, and he felt his very essence twist to evade it, a wave of dizziness and nausea crashing over him.

He forced one foot back towards the edge of the circle, vision spinning, and felt his soul twist again, his wings manifesting in the physical plane. The spell dove even deeper and this time Crowley stumbled as he felt every ounce of his physical strength flee him. Holding himself up was suddenly an unbearably colossal task, and he collapsed, only barely maintaining his grip on the peach. He was starving and dying of thirst all at once, and he registered dimly that the spell was devouring every ounce of energy he possessed—even potential energy.

Crowley had a final moment of clarity, there with his head sinking lower to the grass, and with the last of his strength he tossed the peach in front of him, towards the edge of the circle.

He didn’t see if it made it, because at that moment every ounce of energy he had left fled him, and his heart forgot to beat.

The spell dug deeper still, and Crowley felt his soul twist one last time, seeking a final refuge in the shape that required the least amount of energy to survive.

Crowley felt his heart start beating again as he shifted into a serpent, the energy he’d gained from the transfer giving him a moment’s relief. He surged forward immediately, not even bothering to draw breath—it would take too long, and if he could just get a few inches further forward—

The spell lunged after him, tearing away the tattered scraps of energy Crowley had so recently acquired, but Crowley found one last reservoir of power, tucked away in the part of himself he associated most strongly with Aziraphale, and he shot forward.

His head passed the edge of the warding, and he felt part of his body collide with something soft and round a moment later, knocking it forward as well.

And then Crowley was gasping for breath in the grass that was so beautiful and Earthly and _real_ , and his vision went black.

 

~~***~~

 

 _“Crowley!”_ Aziraphale shouted again, falling to his knees beside the glimmering black serpent sprawled in the grass.

“Crowley, Crowley, oh _God_ , don’t be dead, please, _Crowley!_ ” Aziraphale’s heart was in his throat, pounding rapidly as he struggled to see if Crowley was breathing.

The serpent had just barely managed to pull his tail over the edge of the warding before falling still, but Aziraphale thought he could see his flanks rising and falling in fast, desperate bursts.

 _“Crowley?”_ Aziraphale said again, voice jumping an octave in fear. He hadn’t seen Crowley in his serpent form for centuries, possibly over a millennium, and frankly he didn’t know enough about snakes to know if Crowley was just catching his breath or about to die.

“That _damn_ , bloody peach,” Aziraphale swore loudly, casting the fruit a hateful look. “I _knew_ this couldn’t end well— _please_ , Crowley—”

There were tears streaking down his cheeks and he didn’t even bother trying to wipe them away. He tried to touch Crowley next, but of course his fingers just passed straight through Crowley’s brilliant scales. He’d felt the spell keeping him physical abruptly sever almost as soon as Crowley had stepped into the circle, and had known then that something was seriously wrong.

He still wasn’t completely sure what had happened, but it didn’t look like whatever it was had killed Crowley…not yet, anyway.

Aziraphale put his head nearer to the ground, trying to see if he could glean any further information about Crowley’s state from his face.

The serpent’s head was a neat wedge with a few delicate, shimmering black scales picking out the line of his nose. His eyes were open—or, rather, they were always open, given that snakes didn’t have eyelids—but they didn’t seem to be looking at anything, pupils vertical slits so thin he could barely see them.

Still, his eyes were reassuringly familiar, that same beautiful golden colour they’d always been, even if they were currently a little glassy. As Aziraphale leaned closer, he thought he might have seen a fleck of something in Crowley’s left eye, but just then Crowley’s whole body shifted slightly and his pupils widened.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale asked weakly, hearing the desperation in his own voice but not caring in the slightest. The need to reassure himself that Crowley was all right through physical touch was very strong, but his hand only met that same half-resistance when he tried.

Crowley’s breathing slowly steadied, and his head lifted ever so slightly. A delicate, forked pink tongue flicked out and tasted the air.

Then his jaws opened, and he spoke, voice hoarse. “A—Aziraphale?”

It was more than bizarre, hearing Crowley’s voice—the voice of his last corporation, nonetheless—coming from the serpent sprawled on the grass in front of him, but Aziraphale was too relieved to take much issue with it.

“Here,” Aziraphale said quickly, giving the serpent a gentle, insubstantial tap on one of his coils in case Crowley could feel it. With his other hand, he wiped hastily at his tear-streaked cheeks, struggling to regain his composure. “My God, Crowley, are you all right?”

“That—that sssigil—” Crowley said, voice falling automatically into a hiss, “let’sss never do that again either.”

Aziraphale let out a huff of breath, but felt marginally better; if Crowley was making jokes, he must not feel he was in immediate danger.

“Sssorry,” Crowley hissed, head dipping closer to the grass and looking like every word cost him a great effort, “we’ll have to…ssstay here…a bit longer. I need…to sssleep.” Crowley’s chin touched the ground as he said it, looking like he intended on doing so just then.

Aziraphale glanced around, but it seemed they still had the place to themselves. And it really didn’t matter if Aziraphale thought they ought to get going anyway; Crowley couldn’t see or hear him, so all he could do was stick with Crowley until he could perform the spell that would bring him back into the physical plane.

Because the moment Aziraphale’s fingers had passed through Crowley’s scales he’d realised that there was no way he could eat the peach while he was ethereal.

On the grass in front of him, Crowley found enough strength to curl around himself, wrapping himself in a sloppy pile of coils.

“Will…make it quick…” Crowley hissed, sounding barely conscious, and proceeded to tuck his wedge-shaped head into his glimmering coils.

Aziraphale let out a long, worried sigh and settled down on the grass next to his friend, wiping the last of his tears from his cheeks. He realised he still had the pieces of paper in his pocket and pulled them out, though Crowley’s mobile had fallen from his fingers when Crowley broke off the connection, and was lying in the grass a metre or so behind him.

Aziraphale splayed the papers out on the grass in front of him and tried to eke any further meaning out of them.

Meanwhile, Crowley remained curled into a ball beside him, the sides of his body near where his head vanished into his coils occasionally rising and falling with his breaths.

And on his other side, resting in the grass as though there were nothing remarkable about it at all, lay a beautiful, unbruised peach that had been formed by God’s own hand.

 

~~***~~

 

Crowley was exhausted, every inch of his body calling for water, rest, and food. He wanted nothing more than to stay where he was and refuse to move for another decade or two, but he was aware that he wasn’t safe where he was, and on top of that he was beginning to grow rather cold.

Sighing to himself, Crowley slowly pulled his head out of his coils and tentatively tasted the air.

Eden was very bright and tasted like light and growing things and freshly tilled earth. Crowley’s tongue flicked out a second time, and this time he tasted the sweetness of peaches and a hint of something he thought might have been Aziraphale. In addition, he felt his understanding of the temperatures around him increase; he was currently enveloped in the warmth of the sun, but there were cooler areas ahead of him, underneath the trees circling the clearing.

Crowley swivelled his head around, allowing his vision a moment to focus. He was just outside of the boundary of the sigil around the Tree, the peach resting next to him in the grass, unharmed.

He swung his head around the other way and saw what looked like his mobile lying a few metres away. Aziraphale was nowhere to be seen, of course, but Crowley felt certain he was nearby, and radiating a good deal of what he thought was concern as well.

“Hi, angel,” Crowley hissed, stretching his head out further and beginning to uncoil himself. He was still more tired than he ever wanted to be again, but his nap had refreshed him a little and the divinity lying heavy in the air was certainly not causing any further harm.

Crowley felt around himself, wondering if he’d recovered enough power to shift back to human form yet. A little to his alarm, when he searched for his power, he found nothing—not even a few drops—just an empty chasm within him, lying so barren it almost hurt.

 _All right, so the sigil did an extremely thorough job,_ Crowley thought hastily to himself, trying not to panic. He’d just have to wait a little longer, then, was all.

Crowley’s gaze slipped to where his mobile was lying facedown in the grass. His first priority had to be getting out of Eden before their presence was noticed, if it hadn’t been already, but crossing the desert—or even getting down that ridge—had been exhausting enough when he’d been human-shaped. And if he kept expending himself putting distance between them and Eden, it might be quite some time before he could recover enough energy to shift back. Changing forms was no easy feat, and because humans were more complicated than serpents, it would cost him quite a bit of his power—power that hadn’t even begun to rekindle yet. But despite that, they at least needed to get out of Eden.

Crowley automatically tasted the air again and remembered the peach behind him. Aziraphale wouldn’t be able to eat it until Crowley could make him physical again, but he’d need to be human for that—mostly because he needed opposable thumbs to draw the necessary sigils.

But it might be days before he recovered enough strength to shift back, and days more until he had enough power to safely complete the spell, and that was if he managed to evade Heaven, found something to eat and drink, and rested up. But where could he do that, seeing as he was likely to scare off any human that came within ten metres of him, or else encourage them to grab shovels or shotguns?

“Bad newsss, angel,” Crowley hissed. “You might be ssstuck there for a while ssstill.”

Crowley paused, waiting for Aziraphale to reply, but there was only silence.

Turning the problem of what to do next over in his mind, Crowley’s gaze wandered to his mobile, still lying facedown in the grass not far away. He slithered over to it, tipped it over with his nose, and pressed the home button. It took him two tries, but then the screen lit up. He looked at it for a long moment and realised a bit dismally that this wasn’t going to work.

“Bugger,” Crowley hissed. He looked up and over to one side, where he thought Aziraphale might have been. “We’ve got a problem, angel.”

He looked back down at his mobile. He had the home button keyed to open at his thumbprint, but of course that was a no-go. And he could have tapped in his four-digit passcode easily enough, except that the screen was heat-sensitive.

Crowley tried anyway, poking at the overly-bright 4 button with the tip of his nose. It didn’t register. He tried again, and then poked at it with the tip of his tail, but the mobile’s screen only dimmed.

“That’sss the problem with you warm-blooded mammalsss,” Crowley hissed rather crossly, as though he hadn’t been one himself just a few minutes ago. “Ssspecissst bassstardsss.”

Crowley did his best to scowl down at his mobile, but snakes weren’t really meant for scowling either. “Well, there goesss that plan.”

He thought for a moment more, and then carefully opened his mouth and grabbed the corner of his mobile in his jaws. His fangs skittered unpleasantly across the unnaturally flat and smooth surfaces he had admired so very recently.

Crowley dragged the mobile over to the peach and spat it out next to it. He would have abandoned the mobile here, except that it held photos of all of the sigils, including the one he’d have to recreate to bring Aziraphale back, if he couldn’t make it back to the bookshop.

“Okay, angel,” Crowley hissed, looking back and forth between the peach and the mobile. “Got any bright ideasss?”

There was no response.

“Me neither,” Crowley hissed. Carrying the mobile in his jaws was uncomfortable but potentially doable, but he couldn’t carry both it and the peach simultaneously, and even if he carried them one at a time and doubled back every few metres, he wasn’t sure if he dared touch the peach with his fangs, for fear of piercing its soft skin. It would be just his luck, having the fruit of the Tree of Life rot on him.

He didn’t think he could carry anything on his back or in his coils while he moved, not least of all because slithering required his entire body. He was just considering maybe holding the mobile in his jaws and rolling the peach along in front of him when he had a stroke of genius.

“Hold on, Zira, I’ve got the perfect idea,” Crowley said, slithering towards the edge of the clearing. He moved among the undergrowth for a while, surprising a chipmunk in the process, until he found a bush with long, wide, glossy leaves.

Crowley raised his head and nosed among the leaves until he found a particularly wide one. He bit at the petiole, screwing up his nose at the foul taste. He kept at it until the leaf trembled and the stalk started to break. He gnawed through the last strands of cellulose until the leaf tore free and dropped softly to the ground.

Crowley pulled his head out of the bush and worked his jaw, flicking his tongue out to try to get rid of the heavy, sticky taste of plant. He wasn’t very successful, though, and eventually he gave up and grabbed onto the leaf by the frayed end of the petiole. He slowly dragged it back into the clearing and over to where he’d left the peach and his mobile.

He rolled the peach onto the leaf with his nose and then deposited the mobile slightly behind it so that the peach wasn’t as likely to roll off.

He looked up and around proudly, wanting to see what Aziraphale thought of his ingenuity, but of course there was no sign of the former angel.

Crowley sighed a little to himself and looked down at the leaf. “All right, Aziraphale, let’sss get going.”

He took ahold of the leaf by the stalk and started dragging it towards the deer track they’d followed on their way in.

The ground, which had seemed relatively flat under human-sized feet, was proving to be anything but. Crowley wouldn’t have had too much trouble by himself, but dragging the leaf and its precious cargo was a constant struggle.

The leaf snagged on every stray root and hummock, and though the mobile usually stayed put, the peach constantly rolled off. Crowley went so far as to collect a few small stones and stack them around the peach, which did actually help a little with stability.

It was incredibly slow going, and it wasn’t long before Crowley started growing very tired again. His jaw was beginning to ache, and the sticky taste of cellulose was still in his mouth.

It must have taken him an hour to reach the place where he and Aziraphale had turned left, and he continued back the way they had come, towards the Eastern Gate. He was a little worried about losing the ethereal Aziraphale, but he thought he could still feel him hovering somewhere nearby. Though the sigil seemed to have drained him of much of his angelic power, Crowley was very grateful he hadn’t lost his newfound ability to sense Aziraphale’s whereabouts. He supposed it was because the sigil hadn’t been able to affect the piece of his soul he had given to Aziraphale, and was glad he had managed to convince Aziraphale to accept it. Crowley didn’t seem to be missing it, and the connection it had opened up between them had already proven itself to be invaluable.

A few minutes after he passed the fork in the path, Crowley paused to readjust the peach. As he tasted the air, he detected a hint of fresh, cool running water somewhere nearby. He tasted the air again, determining that the stream in question was approximately two dozen metres ahead and to his right. His mouth was dry and parched, and still filled with sap from the leaf.

Crowley dragged the leaf a few metres further and then left it tucked up next to a tree trunk. He spent a moment memorising the location—a slightly cool patch beside a sweet-smelling bush with small, purple, tangy-scented flowers, and just over a tiny ridge of moss.

“Quick detour,” Crowley hissed aloud, for Aziraphale’s benefit, and then started through the trees.

He was much quicker without being burdened by the leaf, slithering nimbly over tree roots and around tiny saplings.

Crowley slithered around the base of a flowering tree and the stream came into view, a thin, shimmering ribbon cutting through the foliage. A few birds with cream-coloured wings and speckled heads were drinking from the far side of the stream, but only one of them even bothered to look up at Crowley as he approached the other bank, tilting its head at him curiously.

Crowley ignored it and lowered his own head towards the water’s surface. He wanted very badly to just duck his entire head in, but he knew that would only create more problems than it solved. He did want to get the taste of plant out of his mouth, though, so he carefully parted his jaws and lowered his head into the water, allowing the sweet-tasting water to flood his mouth.

He started choking at approximately the same moment and had to rear back and do his best to spit the water out. When he had returned to breathing normally, he moved his head back to just above the water’s surface and flicked out his tongue.

Drinking one tiny tongueful at a time was tedious and far too slow for how dehydrated he felt, so thankfully he was able to slowly lower his jaw into the water, this time managing not to choke. Once he had successfully swallowed a few gulps he got the hang of it pretty quickly—in his defence, it _had_ been quite a while—and after a long couple of moments he pulled back and just rested by the edge of the stream, letting the water seep into his parched system. The water had been a little cold, though, and he felt his entire temperature slowly dropping to match. He was ravenously hungry as well, but he certainly wasn’t about to eat anything that was currently alive, and most of the plants around him didn’t look particularly edible, even for humans.

He wanted very much to fall asleep there, maybe tucked into a little hollow by the edge of the stream, but after a long moment he forced his head off the ground. He started slithering back towards where he’d left the leaf.

He found it easily enough, and resumed dragging it towards the Eastern Gate.

It took another hour, but then the rock was finally in sight, the sword sticking straight up out of it like a particularly damning beacon.

Stretching out past the stone was the modern Iranian landscape, the twilight sky a deep, rich purple.

Crowley dragged the leaf out of Eden and spat it out near the base of the stone, next to the holdall Aziraphale had left there. The feeling of divinity quickly faded the moment he left the lush grass for the sand-strewn ridge.

Crowley waited there for a moment, looking up at the sword. If he didn’t pull it out of the stone, the gate would remain open—something Crowley thought was probably a very bad idea. As it was, it had already been open twice as long as Crowley would have liked.

The problem was, he currently didn’t have any hands with which to draw it.

Crowley slithered closer to the rock and carefully raised his head, coiling his tail around the base of the stone as his head ventured higher.

Very carefully, he slithered onto the top of the rock, just as he had six thousand years ago.

“Okay, angel,” Crowley hissed, looking up at the hilt of the sword. “Thisss isss going to look really ssstupid. Don’t laugh.”

Crowley carefully wound himself around the portion of the sword’s blade still sticking up above the surface of the rock, between the stone and the base of the hilt. He wound himself fairly loosely, wary of the blade’s sharp edges. Then he pressed the top of his head against the crossguard of the sword and pushed up.

Luckily, Aziraphale hadn’t shoved the blade into the rock very hard, and after a few moments of straining, coils tightening reflexively around the cool blade, the sword started to shift upwards.

Crowley raised his head as far as he dared and then tightened his coils even further around the blade of the sword, feeling the edges pricking against his scales. He slowly readjusted himself, wrapping another coil around the sword and adjusting his body to accommodate. When he had a little more freedom to move his head, he pushed the sword up another few inches and repeated the process.

Progress was dreadfully slow, and his flanks started hurting almost immediately, both from the constant effort of keeping the sword from sliding back down and the fact that he was pretty sure he was bleeding in a few places from where he’d not been careful enough with the edge of the blade. His scales offered a fair amount of protection, all things considered, but the sword _was_ rather sharp and he was exerting a fair amount of pressure on the blade.

The sword tried falling back into the stone several times, and once Crowley almost lost his grip on it completely, managing to cut himself quite badly in the ensuing moment of panic, but after a painful twenty minutes he pushed the sword another few inches up with his head and felt it wobble slightly. Crowley was encouraged but didn’t want to try to tip it out quite yet, so he managed to wrap another coil around it, slowly pushing it another few inches out of the stone.

It was beginning to list quite far now, and when Crowley gave it another nudge with his head it tipped alarmingly. Crowley’s grip on it tightened automatically as the sword tilted even further and toppled off of the stone.

As they collided with the sandy ground, Crowley felt the last traces of divinity in the air evaporate. They hit quite hard, and though he did have the wind knocked out of him, he hadn’t fallen on his head. He’d cut himself on the blade again, though.

Crowley loosened his grip on the sword and took a moment to rest. Freeing the sword had been a very physical endeavour, and he quivering with overexertion and hungrier than ever. Unfortunately, there was even less to eat in this desert wilderness.

“Sssuppossse I get to rule all of England,” Crowley hissed as he got his breath back, shifting against the blade of the sword he was still wrapped around. “Onccce and future king, huh?”

Crowley slowly disentangled himself from the sword, taking care not to cut himself any further. Once he was free, he stretched out and swivelled his head around so he could poke along his own flank, taking stock of his wounds.

There were a great number of small scratches on his iridescent black scales that hadn’t broken his skin, but there were a few deeper, longer cuts as well. None of them looked too serious, but they did sting quite badly. His scales were glistening with blood in places, and the wounds pulled painfully when he twisted the other way to look at his other side. His gaze fell on the sword in the process, and he saw that the blade was smeared with blood as well.

“There mussst have been a better way to do that,” Crowley hissed to the unseen Aziraphale. “You’ve probably got a dozen of them all thought through, don’t you?”

Crowley took stock of his other side and decided, much to his own disappointment, that he ought to get moving. Night was beginning to properly set in, dark shadows swallowing up the ridge, and he knew they were as much sitting ducks here as they’d been in Eden.

Wincing at the movement, Crowley slithered over to the holdall and poked around inside with his head. There was plenty of room inside, their two empty water bottles having rolled into the corner by their travel documents.

Crowley pulled his head out and looked back over at the sword, gleaming in the fading light. After going through all the trouble of pulling it from the stone, it seemed rather pointless to leave it here, and if he was going to have to drag the peach and his mobile everywhere, he might as well take the sword too.

Crowley slithered over to it, closed his jaws around the pommel, and started dragging it across the rocky ground towards the holdall. It was even harder on his teeth than the mobile had been, but after a good deal of pulling, pushing, and frustrated hissing, he managed to shove it into the holdall. His mobile and the peach joined it a moment later, along with the leaf, just in case.

Crowley was feeling exhaustion really beginning to set in—he was still drained from the sigil and his sides stung insistently—but he moved closer to the bag anyway and tucked his head in between two of the flat nylon straps lying atop each other, near the plastic adjustment piece.

Sighing a little to himself, because the amount of stupid things he’d had to do today was unbelievable, Crowley started dragging the holdall along the ridge.

He didn’t think he could manoeuvre it down the boulder-strewn hillside even on his best day, so he stuck to the flatter top of the ridge, hoping that as long as he could put some distance between them and Eden, that would be enough.

The last hints of day faded from the sky and a cold wind started blowing as the stars came out. Crowley felt his blood grow sluggish, breaths slowing as his body fought to preserve some semblance of internal body temperature. The tiny cuts all along his sides started searing as sand settled into them, and he found himself wishing he’d drank more at the stream. Pushing at the nylon strap was also making his head pound, skull protesting the abuse. And if that wasn’t enough, there was a tight, anxious feeling in the pit of his stomach that he decided meant that he had to keep putting more distance between them and Eden.

Crowley dragged the holdall as far as he could, until the moon was high overhead and he could not convince his shaking, freezing body to go any further.

He dragged the holdall to the side of a rather large rock and disentangled himself from the strap, head throbbing in time with the cuts along his sides. “Think that’sss gonna be…a night,” Crowley rasped in case Aziraphale was listening. He was too tired to feel for his friend's presence, but thought it was likely the former angel had kept up with him, probably bemoaning the fact that, had Aziraphale been physically present or Crowley human-shaped, they could have accomplished in about twenty minutes what Crowley had just spent the last four hours doing.

Crowley debated crawling under the rock and sleeping there, but he wasn’t sure just how out-of-the-way this area was, and didn’t want to wake to find that some hiker had wandered off with the holdall—or, worse yet, that some enterprising animal had eaten the peach.

So Crowley climbed into the holdall, avoiding the cold, sharp metal of the sword as best he could, and wrapped himself around the peach.

It took only a few moments for him to fall asleep.


	14. An Hour of Need

When Crowley came to, his first awareness was that it was warm. Very warm.

Crowley started to uncoil himself, tasting the air as he poked his head out of the top of the holdall.

He must have slept through the better part of the morning, because the sun was bearing down now and it was _scorching_.

Delighted, Crowley made sure the peach was safely stowed away and pulled himself from the holdall. The sandy ground was hot beneath his scales, and Crowley only went a metre or so away before stretching himself out, letting the sun bake down on him.

Unfortunately, there were temperatures that were _too_ hot even for snakes, and Crowley was slowly and rather regretfully realising that this was one of those temperatures. The heat was dehydrating him even further, for one thing, and he had no idea where he would find more water in this desert. It was also starting to be actually painful, the sun prickling at his scales, and he could feel himself slowly beginning to overheat, a process he knew it would take an annoyingly long time to recover from.

So Crowley reluctantly headed back towards the holdall and slithered into a patch of shadow by the boulder. As he started working through what his next move was, he took a moment to search for Aziraphale. He felt the former angel’s presence, just as steady as it had been this whole time, and Crowley reflected that that was about the only thing that had gone right the entire trip.

He tried feeling around for his power again, but was worried to find that he was still completely out, the raw, empty feeling just as strong as it had been before.

“Angel,” Crowley said, “I think we have a problem.”

Crowley took a moment to fish around inside of himself again, just in case, but he couldn’t find a scrap of divine power anywhere, or diabolical power for that matter. He might have worried that he’d been rendered human, except that he had a very clear image in his mind now of exactly what mortality felt like, and he didn’t feel mortal.

“I don’t ssseem to be recharging my powersss,” Crowley hissed, trying not to sound as worried about it as he felt. “I dunno why—the sssigil, maybe? I don’t know when I’ll be able to shift back.” He cleared his throat, but wasn’t sure what else to say, and he felt a little daft talking to thin air anyway.

Crowley’s mind wandered back to his mobile and something occurred to him quite suddenly. He slithered over to the holdall and nosed around inside until he found where his mobile had ended up shoved into a corner. He grabbed it in his jaws and carefully tugged it free, letting it plop down onto the weed-strewn earth. Crowley dragged it into the shadow of the boulder and laid it there.

Then he slithered out into the bright sunlight and buried his nose in a patch of sand.

He began to get uncomfortably warm straight away, and Lord only knew what Aziraphale was thinking—probably that he’d lost it from heatstroke—but he stayed that way, trying not to breathe too much.

When he felt like he might actually damage his snout if he left it there any longer, he pulled his nose out of the sand and slithered back over to his mobile. He poked at the home button until the screen lit up, and nosed at the 4 key.

To his delight, it lit up as he touched it. “Excccellent,” Crowley hissed, and poked at the 0 next. He reversed the steps for the next two numbers—0 and 4 again, for the year he had met Aziraphale—and the mobile unlocked.

Crowley swung his head up to the upper left-hand part of the screen, squinting down at its too-bright surface. It looked like he had one bar.

“Thank the ssstarsss for people who can’t live without wi-fi,” Crowley hissed, and nosed at the phone app.

He tried scrolling through his contacts—he only had a handful—but the phone was beginning to lose track of his movements again.

Crowley slithered back out into the sunlight and shoved his nose into the sand.

He counted to twenty and then hurried back, poking at the screen to prevent it from going dim. He glanced at his battery life this time—he had about 65% left, pretty decent considering Crowley had never bothered to plug it in.

He had been planning on phoning Kazariel, but he saw now that, though she had given him her number, she had done so on paper, and he had neglected to actually move it to his contacts. It must still be sitting at the bookshop somewhere.

So Crowley dragged his nose across the screen and tapped on the contact named _Newt and Anathema_ , which was under Pulsifer.

The screen switched to the contact information page, and Crowley tapped on the image of a phone. The screen switched again, this time to a dark grey as the sound of civilisation filled the air.

The phone rang. And rang. And rang again.

“Pick up,” Crowley hissed irritably.

The phone rang one more time, and switched to a mechanical voice.

 _You have reached the voicemail of_ — _Newt Pulsifer_ — _I am_ — _barred from using my phone while on holiday, apparently, sorry about that_ — _Please leave your message at the tone_.

“On _holiday?”_ Crowley hissed in disbelief. “The one day—the _one day_ , in twenty yearsss—”

The phone gave a chime that was apparently what ‘the tone’ passed for these days.

“—of all the _inconsssiderate_ —can you believe thisss, angel?”

Crowley sighed and nosed at the _end call_ button. The screen faded back to the list of his contacts. Crowley stared down at it, wondering who he should call next. Because he _needed_ to call someone, needed _help_ like he never had before.

Crowley looked down at Newt and Anathema’s contact, and his gaze drifted up to one only a little bit above it. He nosed at it. It took him a couple of tries, and he had to go back and stick his nose in the sand again for a few seconds before the mobile detected him poking at the call button.

The sound of ringing filled the air again. Crowley nosed at the speaker button.

The phone rang. And rang.

“Come on,” Crowley hissed. “Pleassse.”

The phone rang for a third time, and then abruptly broke off as someone picked up.

“Crowley?” a familiar, friendly voice asked from the mobile, sounding a little puzzled and worried. “Hey, are you all right? No one’s seen you in weeks.”

Crowley felt relief flow through him. “Hi, Bert,” he said, trying to smooth the hiss out of his voice. “I need to asssk for a huge favour.”

“Are you in trouble?” Bert asked, and Crowley could hear some of the background noise fade out; the barman must have moved somewhere more private. “What can I do?”

“You could sssay that,” Crowley hissed. “Lisssten, thisss isss going to sssound crazy, but you’ve got to trussst me, okay?”

“Are you all right?” Bert asked again. “You sound a little off. It might be the connection.”

“I’m fine,” Crowley said. “I need you to trussst me on thisss, pleassse.”

There was a moment when the phone only crackled at him. Then Bert sighed. “Yeah, Crowley, of course I trust you. Anything. What do you need?”

“It’sss not going to be cheap,” Crowley warned him, “But I’ll repay you, okay? You know I’m good for that.”

There was a slight pause, and Crowley could hear the suspicion in Bert’s voice before he even spoke. “What is it?”

Crowley looked down at the mobile and the tenuous connection to help it held. “I need you to fly to Iran.”

There was a long pause, and Crowley was afraid he was going to hang up. Then: “ _Say that again?_ ”

“Fly to Iran,” Crowley repeated. “Now, pleassse.”

 

~~***~~

 

“Am I getting close?” Bert’s voice crackled from the dimmed screen of the mobile. Crowley had been limiting its use to conserve battery—currently it was dipping below 20%.

“Can you sssee the ridge?” Crowley hissed back, shifting his gaze between the mobile propped up on the rock in front of him and the landscape beyond it.

“Yeah,” Bert said. “Are you sure I shouldn’t have brought some first aid responders?”

Crowley may have allowed the barman to put himself under the impression that Crowley had injured himself hiking, or perhaps that he had discovered a hidden treasure in the desert and was loath to leave it, like in _Indiana Jones_.

“No, jussst keep walking,” Crowley hissed back. “I’m fine, really.”

Bert grumbled something, and Crowley could hear him breathing heavily as he presumably navigated his way around some rocks.

“You’d better have a really good reason for this,” Bert huffed. “I had to sneak across the Armenian border just to get into the country, you know. I could have been _killed_.”

“Sssorry,” Crowley hissed.

“You’re lucky it was a peaceful border,” Bert said. “Had to take quite a hike into the hills, though.”

“Exxxercccissse isss good for you,” Crowley hissed back. “Are you getting clossse to our coordinatesss now? You sssaid you were right on top of usss.”

“Google says I am,” Bert replied, a little defensively, and there was another moment of him huffing and puffing. Crowley surveyed the rock-strewn landscape in front of him, looking for movement. “Hang on, did you say _our_ coordinates?”

Crowley looked back down at the mobile and was still debating how to respond when Bert said, “Hey, I think I see those pointy rocks you were talking about.”

Crowley shifted his gaze back to the rocky slope and saw a small figure halfway down the ridge, looking up with its hand raised to its head.

“I sssee you,” Crowley hissed, relieved. “Now walk ssstraight up the ridge, and I’ll meet you.”

Bert gave an unhappy wheeze. “ _Up_ the ridge, he says,” he muttered. “All right, hang on Crowley, I’ll be there in a tick. I’ll hang up and phone you back if I can’t find you.”

“Sssoundsss good,” Crowley agreed, and a moment later the mobile brightened slightly as Bert hung up.

Crowley thought there was probably no good way to do what he was about to do next, so he just carefully slithered away from the rock, coiled himself into a neat pile next to the holdall, the mobile sitting on the sandy ground in front of him, and waited.

“Crowley?” came Bert’s voice a few minutes later, sounding winded. “Can you hear me?”

“Over here,” Crowley hissed as loudly as he could, which was admittedly not very loud.

Bert seemed to hear him, though, and Crowley heard his footsteps approach, slight tremors in the ground preceding him. To Crowley’s serpentine nose, he still smelled like the pub, a mix of alcohol, grease, and some kind of soap.

“I don’t see you,” Bert’s voice said, and then the barman stepped around a pile of rocks, locked eyes with him, and froze.

“Hello, Bert,” Crowley said.

For the longest time Bert just stared at him. Crowley kept himself absolutely still, afraid any movement on his part might be seen as threatening.

“You’re probably confusssed,” Crowley hissed calmly. “But pleassse, don’t run off.”

Bert’s mouth opened and worked soundlessly for a moment. “Snake,” he said at last, and then his eyes darted around the ridge, presumably looking for more snakes, a good escape route, or perhaps Crowley himself.

“It’sss a long ssstory,” Crowley hissed.

Bert looked back around at him. “You’ve eaten my friend,” he said hoarsely, looking a little pale. “Stolen his voice or something.”

“That’sss cute,” Crowley said. “But no. It’sss me.”

“Bloody hell,” Bert said in disbelief.

“Long ssstory, like I sssaid,” Crowley hissed back. “And Hell _isss_ involved, but look, I need your help.”

Bert raised an eyebrow, and Crowley noted he was still keeping a healthy distance.

“You…need my help,” he repeated slowly.

Crowley bit back a sigh. “Yesss, Bert, that’s why I phoned you.” He nodded at the mobile in front of him.

Bert’s eyes followed his gaze, and he grew even paler. “That’s Crowley’s mobile.”

Crowley really did sigh this time. “Look, Bert, it’sss me, okay?” He started to uncoil himself, but stopped when Bert took a hasty step backwards.

“Your full name’sss Bertrand Marley,” Crowley hissed. “You’ve worked at that pub in Midfarthing ever sssince your wife and unborn daughter died thirty yearsss ago. You grumble every time Ssstevenage winsss a game, becaussse you’re ssstill upssset about what Graham Wessstley did to Farnborough. You onccce invented a drink called the Midfarthing Metropolitan but you don’t sssell it anymore becaussse they ssstopped making the right type of brandy.

“You ssspent lassst Chrissstmasss with me becaussse you knew I’d be alone otherwissse, and you brought a bottle of wine you’d meant to share with your wife on your tenth anniversssary. You’re getting married again, thisss July, to Donna Sssummersss, and you invited me to the wedding yourssself after I came back from my sssabbatical, which was _your_ idea in the firssst placcce.”

Bert stared at him, eyes round, but he no longer looked like he was planning on bolting. He blinked once, slowly. “ _Bollocks_.”

“It’sss a little hard to believe, I know,” Crowley said, “and I’ll explain everything, but I need to get back to London firssst.”

It was better to return to the bookshop, Crowley had decided, than Midfarthing; they definitely needed to get off Heaven’s radar as soon as possible, but he still wasn’t recharging his powers, and if they needed to do any research into why that was, the bookshop would have the resources for it. Also, if he managed to make Aziraphale physical again, the villagers would certainly ask questions when they saw him walking and talking.

“London,” Bert repeated. He was inching closer, now seeming fascinated, looking at Crowley’s serpentine form as though wondering if it was some sort of elaborate puppet.

“There’sss a bookshop,” Crowley hissed. “It’sss where Aziraphale and I usssed to…live, I sssuppossse, before we came to Midfarthing.”

“A bookshop?” Bert stopped and looked at Crowley in confusion. “I thought you made your fortune in banking or something.”

Crowley tried to shrug, but it was awfully hard to do without shoulders, so he just shook his head. “I really will exxxplain everything, but we need to at leassst get to the airport.” He turned his head towards the holdall. “We might have to check that, but the peach goesss with me.”

Bert gave him an incredulous look and moved over towards the holdall. “How does a snake carry a holdall?” he muttered to himself.

“With difficulty,” Crowley replied. “Though I wasssn’t a snake on the way here, if it’sss any consssolation.”

Bert didn’t seem to think it was, and he poked the bag further open. “There’s a sword in here!” he said in surprise, as though he didn’t think Crowley knew that. “Er, there’s blood on it.”

“A very valuable sssword,” Crowley hissed. He remembered the tiny lacerations along his sides. “And very sharp.”

Bert shot Crowley another look, this one wary. “Do I even want to know? You’re not running some sort of drug circle, are you? Or buying antiques from terrorists? I’ve heard that happens; they just dig up old artefacts and sell them on the art market so they can buy more guns.”

“Calm down, Bert,” Crowley hissed. “I didn’t get it from terrorissstsss. It’sss Aziraphale’sss.” He didn’t bother to mention that it had been recently stolen at his behest.

“Oh.” Bert’s expression shifted into guilt. “Sorry.”

Crowley remembered Bert was still under the impression that Aziraphale was dead, and wondered uneasily when he should tell him otherwise. _Once we get back to London_ , he decided. He didn’t want to scare Bert off by giving him too many surprising truths up front, especially since Bert seemed to be cooperating with him now. There was too much depending on Bert helping him back to London for him to feel comfortable risking it. Once they were safely back in London, he would tell Bert everything.

“It’sss fine,” Crowley hissed, moving closer.

Bert shifted uneasily, and Crowley reflected that he was probably scared of snakes. Most humans did seem to have that instinct built in; too bad Eve hadn’t.

“Do you have any water?” Crowley asked. “I’m dying out here.”

That seemed to kick Bert’s brain back into gear, and he pulled a rucksack off his shoulder. “You’re in luck,” Bert said. “I wasn’t sure what all I’d need, never having been to Iran and all…but I did think it might be rather hot.” He produced two bottles of water from his bag.

He looked down at Crowley, and he could tell Bert was wondering exactly how to hand it to him.

“Jussst unssscrew the cap and ssset it down,” Crowley said.

Bert did so and Crowley slithered over to it. He stuck his nose right up against the open top and flicked his tongue in, tasting it. It wasn’t as sweet as the water in Eden had been, and tasted a little like plastic, but it was miraculously cool and wet, and Crowley had been baking in the sun for the past thirty-six hours.

He wrapped himself carefully around the water bottle and started the complicated task of tilting it with the lower half of his body while sticking his head right up next to the top. His snout was too wide to fit inside, and water dripped everywhere as he tilted it, but enough of it managed to flow into his parted jaws to slake his thirst.

Bert seemed to be watching this display with something like impressed shock, but Crowley was too concerned about drinking as much as he could that he didn’t really care.

“I’ve gone mad,” Bert said, voice hoarse. “Absolutely barking _barmy_.”

Crowley let out a huff of air in amusement and tilted the bottle back onto its base, seeing that he’d bent it a little out of shape when he’d coiled around it too tightly. He’d only managed to empty about half of it, but was feeling sated as it was.

“Thanksss.”

“Either you’re off your trolley or I am,” Bert concluded, watching his every move and sounding like he didn’t know which one of them it was.

“I can assure you, Bert, we’re both very much on our trolleysss,” Crowley hissed.

Bert raised his eyebrows but cleared his throat in apparent surrender of his sanity. “…You said you need to get back to London?”

“Yesss.” Crowley went back to nosing at the water bottle, feeling like he was still thirsty even though he felt full.

“Er, but you’re a snake.”

“Nothing ssslipsss passst you,” Crowley hissed. “I can change back, in theory, but can’t ssseem to right now. But there hasss to be a way—”

“Hang on,” Bert interrupted. “You _can change back?_ ”

“Well, yesss,” Crowley said, a little crossly. “You don’t sssee me as a ssserpent very often, do you?”

Bert blinked at him. “So you weren’t…I dunno, zapped this way by aliens or an ancient curse?”

“No,” Crowley said as patiently as he could. “It’sss my true form—look, I’ll explain later, okay?”

Bert looked at him again. “You’d better.”

“On my honour,” Crowley hissed. “Now, as I wasss sssaying, there mussst be a way to transssport ssserpentsss, even on planesss. Google it.”

Bert looked at him for a moment, and then pulled his mobile out of his pocket. He Googled it.

“Okay, I’ll probably have to ask around at the airport,” Bert said after a long moment, “but you’re right. Er…” He scrolled through something on his phone and then looked down at Crowley. “What species are you?”

Crowley gave him his most affronted look. “Exxxcussse you?”

“It says there are different rules for different species,” Bert said reasonably.

“I’m not—” Crowley began. “I don’t…” He trailed off, thinking. “I don’t know,” he settled on at last. “I might be an amalgamation of ssseveral ssspeciesss. Or maybe one that’sss extinct.”

Bert frowned at him and proceeded to tap at something on his mobile. “Black snake species,” he said aloud, fingers typing on the screen. He looked at Crowley again. “Shiny.”

Crowley cleared his throat. “That’sss _iridessscent_ to you.”

“Iridescent,” Bert corrected. He spent a moment poking at his phone. He looked back at Crowley and then to his phone. “Could be…a black pinesnake, an eastern indigo snake…where are you native to?”

“Nowhere on thisss planet,” Crowley said, honestly enough.

Bert gave him another long look, but didn’t comment. “Could be a Mexican black kingsnake, then,” he said, returning his gaze to his mobile. “Or a…Formosan odd-scaled snake.” He looked back up at Crowley. “There are a lot of black snake species, apparently.”

“Jussst pick one,” Crowley hissed. “I doubt anyone at the airport’sss going to want to get clossse enough to check.”

Bert gave him a slightly worried look, but turned his attention back to his mobile all the same. “Mexican black kingsnake it is,” he said, poking at the screen.

He spent a long time swiping at his screen, and then sighed. “Okay, never mind, apparently all that matters is if you’re venomous are not.” He looked down at Crowley. “Are you?”

Crowley grinned. “Naturally.”

Bert appeared a little unsettled. “Er, really?”

“The mossst venomousss.”

Bert looked at him and then back at his mobile. “Okay,” he said after a moment, “the Mexican black kingsnake’s not venomous, so congratulations, neither are you.”

Crowley let out a hiss of exasperation, but it must have just come across as a regular hiss, because Bert gave him a sideways, nervous look.

“Anyway,” Bert said, clearing his throat, “For non-venomous snakes, it says…oh, you’re not going to like this.”

Crowley tilted his head and fixed Bert with a sharp gaze. “What isss it?” he asked suspiciously.

“Well,” Bert said, a bit nervously, “it starts with a pillowcase…”

 

~~***~~

 

After the pillowcase came a styrofoam box with ventilation holes punched into it, and after the box came a crate, and on all sides of the crate _Live Animal, Non-Venomous Reptile, Avoid Extreme Heat or Cold_ was written in large letters in several languages.

Crowley had looked less than pleased as he vanished into the depths of the pillowcase with the peach wrapped securely in his coils, but from the way he’d been panting when Bert had helped transfer him from the holdall, he’d likely been overheating in there.

Aziraphale was sitting in the cargo hold of the aeroplane heading back to London, his back against Crowley’s crate, turning his ethereal pen over in his fingers. To be honest, he was glad of the opportunity to sit down; he’d started getting lightheaded, probably from the dehydration.

While Bert had busied himself procuring an appropriate crate, Crowley had hissed to him that he was welcome to sit with Bert in the cabin if he liked, instead of accompanying Crowley to the cramped cargo hold, but Aziraphale hadn’t paid him any mind. He had had a feeling that the cargo hold would be even more uncomfortable than economy class, and had thought Crowley might appreciate the company.

Now that they were here, he was glad he’d made the decision he had. He could tell Crowley wasn’t enjoying the experience at all, and if his presence gave Crowley some small modicum of comfort, then it would be worth it. He could feel Crowley’s claustrophobia and exhaustion, the latter of which had become an unhappy constant these past few days. Occasionally there was a frustrated hiss from the crate behind him, and Aziraphale thought he could feel Crowley shifting positions, thrashing around in the pillowcase that was a little too small for a snake of his size. Aziraphale worried that it was probably hard to breathe in there, and hoped Crowley would keep calm enough that he wouldn’t panic.

Aziraphale tilted the back of his head against the top edge of the crate and tried to convey a sense of calm to Crowley. He listened to the sound of the aeroplane engines starting up, a dull roar beginning to fill the cargo hold.

“You’ll be all right,” Aziraphale told Crowley. “It’s a long flight, but if you can fall asleep it’ll go by in a flash, I promise. Just like on the way over here, remember? Just take a nap. I’ll keep an eye on things, don’t worry.”

Crowley didn’t respond, as of course he never did, but over the past year Aziraphale had become very used to speaking to a Crowley who neither heard nor responded to him.

“Here, I’ll tell you about Monaco again, how about that? You always did like that story.” Aziraphale cleared his throat, wincing as his breath scraped over his parched throat. “How’s that one begin again? Oh yes, the prince…”

Aziraphale settled into his narrative, doing his best to ignore the rawness in his throat that had been caused by two days without water—the heat of the desert hadn’t translated very well into the ethereal plane, but the arid air had. He thought he felt Crowley calm down after a few minutes into his rambling narrative, though, which was a relief. When Aziraphale broke off after half an hour or so, thinking he could rest his throat, he felt a worried restlessness creep over him, accompanied by a tremor in the crate as Crowley shifted positions again, clearly ill at ease.

So Aziraphale swallowed what little moisture was left in his mouth and continued speaking, talking until his voice became so hoarse he had to switch to whispering. But it seemed to keep Crowley from panicking too much, so Aziraphale kept it up as the plane cruised through the air and back towards London.


	15. The Physical and Ethereal Planes

“Okay,” Bert said, arms crossed as he surveyed the interior of Aziraphale’s bookshop, night falling swiftly in the Soho streets outside. “You said you would explain, so _please explain why there are Satanic symbols on your floor_.”

“They’re not Sssatanic,” Crowley hissed, still feeling disoriented from his emergence from the crate. He hadn’t thought he’d mind being in the cargo hold of the plane quite so much, but it had felt like he’d been about to smother in the darkness of the pillowcase. He thought Aziraphale might have stayed with him, though; the angel’s presence had never faltered, so either Aziraphale was refusing to leave his side or Crowley was just imagining the sensation altogether. In any case, he’d finally managed to drift into a fitful doze, interrupted with bizarre yet somewhat comforting dreams of the time he and Aziraphale had visited Monaco, of all places.

“They sure look Satanic to me,” Bert asserted, drawing a little closer to the nearest one, which was one of the pair Aziraphale had hastily drawn when they’d needed to break the binding spell. “Pentagrams and everything.”

“Heptagramsss,” Crowley corrected.

“Doesn’t seem to make much of a difference to me,” Bert said.

“Well, it makesss a lot of differenccce if you contact the wrong people,” Crowley hissed, slithering over to the nearest bookcase and carefully depositing the priceless peach on the shelf second from the bottom.

“No more with the cryptic comments,” Bert said, walking over and planting himself a metre or so in front of Crowley. “You said you’d explain, so explain yourself. You’re not from London, for first things.”

Crowley sighed and turned back to Bert. “No,” he admitted, “though I have ssspent an awful lot of time here over the lassst millennium or two.”

Bert stared down at him.

Crowley opened his mouth to continue, but his throat was still sore—the desert must have dried him out more than he’d thought. “Here, could you get me a glassss of water, and then I’ll exxxplain.” Crowley revised his request. “Or a bowl, if you can find one. Should be jussst upssstairsss.”

Bert raised an eyebrow. “You’d better still be here when I get back,” he said, and moved towards the back of the bookshop, evidently looking for the stairs.

“I think I’m going to tell him,” Crowley said once he had gone, addressing his words to the invisible Aziraphale. “He’sss the only one I know right now with opposssable thumbsss, and he dessservesss to know the truth, I think.”

He waited for Aziraphale’s response, and really wished he could hear it. It felt like a decision they ought to be making jointly; it wouldn’t just be his own secrets he’d be giving away. But of course the only response was silence.

Crowley slithered over to the counter in the rear of the bookshop and slowly pulled himself onto it, using a half-open drawer and the stool behind it as stepping stones.

When Bert returned downstairs a few moments later, Crowley tapped the bell on the counter with the tip of his tail to get his attention.

“This whole thing is just bizarre, for the record,” Bert said, sliding a bowl onto the counter in front of Crowley.

“It’sss going to get weirder,” Crowley warned him, and took a long moment to drink. He felt physically full after a few moments, but his throat still cried out for water.

Deciding it must be something water couldn’t help with, Crowley pulled his head back and wondered where to begin; Bert watched him from where he’d taken a seat on the stool behind the counter, where Aziraphale usually sat and ignored his customers.

“Okay,” Crowley hissed after a moment, “let’sss ssstart with the basssicsss. I’m an angel.”

Bert coughed. “Sorry?”

“I know,” Crowley said. “Doesssn’t ssseem like me, doesss it? It’sss a new gig. Usssed to be a demon. Though I sssuppossse I did ssstart asss an angel, ssso…”

“As in…a  _Biblical_ angel?” Bert asked, apparently struggling to wrap his mind around the concept.

“That’sss the one,” Crowley hissed. “The world was created sssix thousssand yearsss ago, by the way. Adam and Eve, Michael and Lucccifer, Heaven and Hell, it’sss all real.”

For the longest time Bert just stared at him. Then: “So if you’re an angel, why are you a snake? And shouldn’t you have wings?”

“I wasss a demon firssst, remember?” Crowley said. “I Fell with Lucccifer and the othersss. I wasss actually the one who tempted Eve with the apple. Sssome of my finer work.”

“But why are you a _snake?_ ” Bert repeated. “Do all angels have…I dunno, spirit animals or something?”

Crowley frowned at Bert—or, he tried to frown. “How am I sssupposssed to know?” he hissed.

Bert seemed surprised. “Well, you’re the angel—demon— _cor_.”

“It doesssn’t matter,” Crowley said, realising with some alarm that he had never actually considered the matter of his true form himself. “Anyway, I wasss a demon. Ssspent too much time with Aziraphale, though; ssstarted wearing off on me—”

“Whoa, whoa, slow down,” Bert said. “How does Ziraphale fit into this?”

“He’sss an angel,” Crowley explained. “Or, wasss an angel, I’ll get back to that—ssso after sssix thousssand years of angelic influenccce—”

“One thing at a time, mate, you said the world began _six thousand years ago?_ But what about the dinosaurs?”

“God’sss little joke.”

Bert blanched a little at that. “ _God._ ”

“What, you thought the universsse created itssself?” Crowley asked, a little exasperated.

“But…the Big Bang—”

“That wasss Him,” Crowley said helpfully. “The firssst day: God createsss light. Or Light, in thisss cassse.”

“I need to be nicer to Father Gilbert,” Bert said, sounding rather like a student who’s just realised that the impending exam covers a great deal of material from the assigned chapters they hadn’t bothered to read.

“Doubt it would help much,” Crowley hissed.

Bert looked like he would gladly remain on this subject for the rest of the day, but Crowley had bigger fish to fry.

“Look, it’sss a really long ssstory, let’sss jussst hit the highlightsss, shall we? After the Apocalypssse—” Bert’s eyes grew, if anything, even rounder, but Crowley continued over him, “Or the failed Apocalypssse, I should sssay, the Antichrissst managed to put quite the kibosh on it, sssome thingsss went down and long ssstory short Aziraphale ended up human. We tried to change him back, but no one’d ever heard of an angel unFalling—”

“Angel!” Bert said loudly, pointing at Crowley.

Crowley broke off and sighed. With Bert struggling to grasp even the most basic of concepts, this was going to take some time, and his throat was itching again.

“Ziraphale!” Bert continued. “ _You_ always called him ‘angel!’ You meant, like, _literally_ —”

Crowley rolled his eyes, which necessitated rolling his entire head. “Well, what else would I have meant?”

Bert opened his mouth and then his cheeks, inexplicably, started to colour. “Er, well, I suppose I assumed—I mean, it seemed pretty obvious—or, at least, I thought it did—”

Crowley, who hadn’t the faintest idea what he was talking about, elected to ignore this, ploughing on with his previous narrative. “Anyway, Aziraphale ended up human and mortal, but Heaven wasss on our tail, ssso we went to Midfarthing to lay low, ssso they wouldn’t find usss—”

“ _Heaven_ ,” Bert interrupted again. “What’s it like? Is it a good place? Is it like they say?”

“Overrated,” Crowley dismissed. “Aziraphale can tell you all about it. Boring asss can be. Too many guardsss, in my opinion. Asss I wasss sssaying—”

“You said Aziraphale was…what, that he used to be an angel? And then was human? You lost me.”

“Aziraphale isss—wasss, I sssupossse—an angel,” Crowley explained as patiently as he could. “For sssix thousand yearsss. Until twenty yearsss ago or ssso. He Fell. From Heaven. From God, from graccce; whatever you want to call it.”

“That sounds painful.”

Crowley felt himself tense a little and looked down at the bowl of water, feeling thirsty again. “It isss.”

“Oh.”

“Usually angelsss Fall and become demonsss,” Crowley said. “That’sss what I did. But he became human. He lossst his immortality.”

“Oh,” Bert said again. “You two…hang on, you said you were a demon…but you two were friends, weren’t you? You _knew_ each other, for _eternity_.”

Crowley nodded. “We were rather bad at our jobsss.”

He expected Bert to ask something about what exactly their jobs consisted of—he had every right to know how Above and Below had been meddling in human affairs for millennia—but instead he only said, “That explains so much…I mean…”

Crowley felt a light touch on his side, and saw that Bert had dared to gently touch one of his coils, fingertips warm against his scales. “Oh, Crowley, I’m so sorry. I can’t imagine—when he _died_ —”

“Hang on,” Crowley said, eager to be the bearer of good news for once, “let me finish. Aziraphale Fell, and died, and I _did_ think he wasss gone for good, but it turnsss out that when he became human hisss sssoul became immortal, and he went to Heaven! Ssso I went up to sssee him, becaussse I’d _un_ Fallen into an angel when he died. And Heaven’sss kinda dull, asss I mentioned before, essspecially for sssomeone who knowsss how the sssyssstem worksss, becaussse it can’t trick you into blissssful ignoranccce like it doesss everyone elssse. Ssso basssically Aziraphale and I broke him out of Heaven. And we were jussst breaking into Eden with that sssword to sssteal a fruit from the Tree of Life ssso he can re-enter the physssical plane, excccept there wasss thisss sssigil around the Tree that sssappped me of my powersss! And I ended up a ssserpent and can’t change back, but the problem isss I can’t make Aziraphale physssical long enough to eat the peach until I get sssome power back!”

Bert was staring at him with his mouth slack, and Crowley got the impression that he had understood about every third word.

“Ziraphale’s… _still alive_?”

Crowley walked Bert through the entire thing again, answering Bert’s baffled questions until his throat burned worse than ever and he even started feeling a little lightheaded.

When almost an hour had passed and Bert showed no signs of slowing down, Crowley started wrapping things up. It was getting very late and he was tired, both from what had happened in Eden and his unpleasant experience in the crate. “Look, we can talk about thisss more later, but we need to get Aziraphale back firssst. That’sss what thossse two sssigils there are for.” He gestured at the two nearest sigils. “The problem isss that they ussse the power of the cassster, which would be me, excccept I can’t ssseem to recharge any of my powersss. We only need Aziraphale to be physssical for a few sssecondsss—onccce he eatsss the peach he should be permanently physssical. But I can’t ssseeem to recover any of my magic.” Crowley hissed the last bit in frustration—it had been almost three days since the sigil had sapped his powers, and he was beginning to seriously worry about what exactly the sigil had done to him. Even if they could get Aziraphale back without using Crowley’s currently nonexistent magic, he wouldn’t be able to shift back without his powers, and he did not intend on spending the rest of his life without opposable thumbs or enough feet to work the pedals on the Bentley.

“Your magic spell needs an energy source,” Bert translated slowly, “and you would provide this—being an angel and all—but you can’t because of the boobytrap in Eden.”

“Pretty much,” Crowley agreed. “We can try to either get rid of the effectsss of the sssigil in Eden, and then wait for me to recharge, or we can try to find another way to power the ssspell.”

“Is there anything I can do to help?” Bert asked. “Spell-wise, I mean? You said something about magic—aren’t there some ingredients I could throw together, maybe a few magic words, and presto chango?”

“Not unlessss you’re sssecretly a witch,” Crowley said. “And witchesss can only ussse minor sssigil ssspellsss anyway.”

“Minor sigils?”

“Minor sssigilsss can be operated by anyone and are generally sssmall in ssscope,” Crowley explained. “Major sssigilsss can be more complicated, and draw their power from the cassster, who ssstandsss in the cccircle.”

“And I suppose this spell is a major one?” Bert asked.

“Yesss. Ssso let’sss get reading, there ought to be sssome booksss around here that can help, and we can call a witch I know in the morning, in cassse she hasss any ideasss.”

Bert nodded but made no move to get up.

“You’re the one with legsss,” Crowley said. “I’m not moving.”

“You said your major…sigils, was it? You said they drew their power from the caster.”

“Yesss, yesss.”

“Where do minor sigils draw their power from, then?”

Crowley did his best to frown at Bert. “Heaven, I think,” he said. “Or Hell, if it’sss a diabolical sssigil. They draw on divinity and ethereal powersss. I think they’re tapping into remnantsss of Creation, but you’d have to asssk Aziraphale.”

“I was just thinking,” Bert said slowly. “You said you only needed a little bit of power to run your fancy sigil, and you can’t power it yourself—but could you power it using magic you drew from Heaven using minor sigils?”

Crowley stared at Bert, all exhaustion forgotten.

“You said minor sigils only draw a little bit of power,” Bert continued, “but could you, I dunno, link minor sigils together to create enough power? Then you said anyone could invoke the minor sigils.”

“Bertrand Marley,” Crowley hissed. “That’sss bloody _geniusss_.”

Bert blinked at him and seemed to think he was joking for a moment. “Really?”

“Yesss,” Crowley said, uncoiling himself and poking around the counter for a pen. “Link enough minor sssigilsss up, you can invoke them, and then we can funnel them _through_ me, and I’ll invoke the major sssigil ssspell at the sssame moment. That way, even if I can’t _hold_ power, with whatever that sssigil in Eden did to me, it should ssstill be able to work, becaussse the ssspell will ssstill _think_ it’sss drawing the power from me, but I’ll jussst be a conduit…find me a pieccce of paper, I need to write sssomething down.”

Bert poked obediently around in the drawers until he found what looked like a list of book titles in Aziraphale’s copperplate handwriting. It had a blank back, though, and he slid it facedown onto the counter. Crowley managed to click the pen he’d found and took it clumsily in his jaws.

He tried drawing a circle, but the tip of the pen wobbled and it came out as a sort of jagged rhombus.

“Bugger,” Crowley hissed, spitting the pen out in frustration. He needed a relatively high level of accuracy for this to work.

“You could try your tail?” Bert suggested.

Crowley tried that too, but he couldn’t get a firm enough grip on the pen—it had too small of a diameter.

“Maybe you could just describe it to me?” Bert asked.

“Too complicated,” Crowley said. There was probably a diagram in one of these books that was close enough to get the point across, but he had no idea which one it might be.

“Do you have a kitchen in here?” Bert asked after a moment. “We could spread flour on the floor and you could draw it out with your nose or something.”

That wasn’t a half-bad idea, except Crowley and Aziraphale had never been inclined to make their food themselves, and hadn’t been living here for almost two decades besides.

“Not really,” Crowley hissed, racking his mind and trying to think of some way they could improvise.

“I don’t suppose you have a tablet or touch-screen laptop around here somewhere?” Bert asked after a long moment of mutual brainstorming.

Crowley shook his head, thinking he’d probably have trouble getting the screen to sense him anyway. His headache was growing, and he was beginning to feel a sort of abstract sense of urgency.

In the end, Bert managed to find an orphaned dark green oil pastel in the back of one of the drawers behind the counter. He wrapped one end in an empty sweets wrapper (tapping the rock-solid toffee inside into a nearby bin) and secured it in place with a rubber band. Crowley then took the whole package clumsily in his mouth, locking his fangs around either side of the pastel, and drew out the diagram while Bert held the piece of paper flat. Bert then attempted to duplicate whatever Crowley had drawn on a second piece of paper, with little initial success. Between Crowley having to draw every glyph at a very large scale and Bert’s ineptitude at sketching, they went through a small stack of papers before Bert managed to successfully produce a diagram that Crowley approved of.

It was past midnight by the time Bert finishing transferring the image to the floor of the bookshop, this time with a piece of chalk. This sigil—the third in the configuration, which included the two Crowley had drawn several days ago—was filled with twenty smaller circles, each one a minor sigil in its own right. Bert would trigger all twenty simultaneously from a fourth circle a metre or so away, this one just a simple circle with a single chalk line connecting it to the circle of minor sigils. The power created by the minor sigils would then be shuttled towards Crowley’s major sigil via a far more complicated series of chalk lines, where Crowley would have a very narrow timeframe to invoke the major sigil and bring Aziraphale into the physical plane. The moment the power supplied by the minor sigils faded, however, Aziraphale would slip away again, so it was imperative he take a bite of the peach immediately.

“Okay, let’sss do thisss,” Crowley hissed once he had completed his final inspection of the floor of the bookshop, which was filling up quickly. “Aziraphale, ssstand in your cccircle, pleassse.”

“Wait, Ziraphale’s _here?_ ” Bert asked in surprise. “He can _hear_ us?”

“Well, yesss,” Crowley hissed, slithering into his circle and double-checking to make sure he hadn’t smudged any of the lines. “He’sss jussst in the ethereal plane.”

“I thought that was…I dunno, like _somewhere else_.”

“No.”

“Wow. _Ziraphale_. Hello, mate. Glad to hear you’re not dead.”

“If thisss worksss, you can tell him in perssson,” Crowley said, focussing his attention on the circle opposite him, where he hoped Aziraphale was standing. He tried reaching out for him, hoping to sense if he was standing there or not, but he couldn’t detect anything beyond his general presence and a feeling of tiredness, and he wasn’t sure if the latter was Aziraphale’s or his own.

Bert cleared his throat, nervously adjusting his position in the unadorned circle. It was directly adjacent to Aziraphale’s, the outer lines just a fraction of an inch apart, and Bert was holding the peach out in one hand, towards Aziraphale’s circle. In his other hand was a sheet of paper on which he had carefully written down phonetic pronunciation of the spell that Crowley had made him repeat back flawlessly five times in a row.

“Whenever you’re ready,” Crowley hissed. “Ready, Zira?”

Bert glanced at Aziraphale’s circle and held the peach a little closer to it. He brought the paper in his other hand up to eye level, and began to read.

“ _Animach lez bezoat alkoshot myne milae magel elay_ ,” Bert read. When he reached “ _shimone, deja, eser_ ,” Crowley joined in, starting his own incantation and keeping it relatively quiet; volume didn’t matter, but he and Bert needed to finish at almost exactly the same moment, and Crowley didn’t want Bert to trip up by hearing Crowley speaking at the same time.

“ _Animach lez bezoat alkoshot myne et atsss me_ ,” Crowley hissed, hoping the sigil wouldn’t mind his stressed _s_ , “ _la zeez etou byte tracht enochoch vo tyte._ ”

In the unadorned circle, Bert finished with, “ _Chisley, esaleen_.”

“ _Ley tomartyze_ ,” Crowley finished a heartbeat later. A rush of power flowed through him, not stopping long enough to settle into his tired, empty soul, and in the same instant Aziraphale appeared in the circle opposite him.

Aziraphale’s hand was hovering a few inches away from Bert’s, and the moment he seemed to realise he was physical he closed the tiny distance and took the peach from the barman.

It was a good thing he did, too, because when Bert looked over at him, he nearly jumped out of his skin and reflexively pulled back.

Aziraphale raised the peach to his mouth and took a bite.

The last of the power flowed through Crowley and he felt himself run dry again, the feeling as raw and unpleasant as always. Aziraphale swallowed.

Crowley stared at him. Aziraphale stayed there.

Aziraphale met Crowley’s gaze and then glanced over at Bert. Aziraphale was still holding the peach, looking prepared to take another hasty bite if necessary. “Did it work?” he asked in a hoarse, whispery voice.

Bert recovered first. “Ziraphale!” he said, and pulled the former angel into a hug.

Aziraphale gave him a bit of an awkward hug back, and Crowley started slithering out of his sigil towards them.

“Good to see you, Bert,” Aziraphale said in that same, hoarse voice, breaking off the hug and giving him a pat on the shoulder. “Thanks for coming when Crowley phoned.”

“ _Cor blimey_ , you really _weren’t making this up_ ,” Bert said, turning a stunned gaze on Crowley as he approached.

“Bert, would you mind—water?” Aziraphale rasped, voice scratchy. “There wasn’t any in the ethereal plane—it’s been days—”

“Dash it all, Ziraphale, of course!” Bert said hastily, and hurried towards the rear of the bookshop.

“My dear,” Aziraphale said kindly to Crowley as he approached, or at least he tried to, but it came out as a sort of cracked whisper. Aziraphale lowered himself onto the floor until he was sitting in his sigil, looking very tired.

“You should eat the ressst of the peach,” Crowley advised, slithering closer and stopping a few inches away. Aziraphale looked exhausted and frightfully pale, but at least he appeared reassuringly solid.

Aziraphale looked at the peach in his hand and held it out to Crowley, the unspoken question evident.

Crowley shook his serpentine head. “I’m already immortal, aren’t I? I don’t know if you need to eat the entire thing, but I’d rather you eat it all now than we ssstart having problemsss a cccentury from now.”

Aziraphale shrugged, seeming to think this was a fair point, and took another bite. Bert returned a moment later, and Aziraphale took the glass of water from him immediately and drained it dry in a single go. Crowley moved a little closer, worried.

Aziraphale closed his eyes for a moment, evidently just savouring the feeling of the water on his throat. Then he blinked his eyes open, handed the glass back to Bert, and mouthed a thank you.

The fact that Aziraphale had shifted to nonverbal communication seemed to alarm Bert, and he hastened back in the direction of the tiny upstairs kitchen.

Aziraphale turned his attention back to Crowley and held out a hand, palm up.

Crowley accepted the invitation, slithering forward onto Aziraphale’s arm. The former angel helped him up, and before long Crowley was resting half in Aziraphale’s lap, half wrapped around his arm, nose questing up Aziraphale’s shoulder.

Aziraphale ran a gentle hand down his side, and it took Crowley a moment to realise he was inspecting the dozens of tiny little scratch marks in his side.

“They don’t really hurt,” Crowley hissed when Aziraphale gave him a worried look, and it was mostly true, though some of the deeper ones still stung quite badly.

He felt he should probably make conversation, but the spell had robbed him of what little energy he’d had, and it was just so unspeakably nice to be able to see Aziraphale again and drink in his aura. And besides, after everything, he just wanted to take a moment to appreciate the fact that _their crazy plan had worked_. They were out of Heaven, they were free—both of them, on Earth, physical and immortal and together.

Crowley made it onto one of Aziraphale’s shoulders and started working his way around to the other one, feeling Aziraphale laugh a little. “Where _are_ you going?” the former angel whispered, voice hoarse but affectionate.

“Jussst over here, angel, don’t worry,” Crowley hissed, reaching Aziraphale’s far shoulder and considering where to go next. All of the stress of the last few days was beginning to fade at last, and he just wanted to curl up on Aziraphale’s delightfully warm shoulders and never leave. “They put me in a _pillowcassse,_ did you sssee?”

Aziraphale nodded, taking care not to dislodge Crowley from his perch. “I’m sorry, my dear,” he said hoarsely.

Bert arrived just then, stumbling a little in surprise when he saw the position Crowley had taken up. Crowley reflected that this probably did look a little strange, but he didn’t really care and Aziraphale certainly didn’t seem to mind.

“Here,” the barman said, holding out the refilled glass of water. “You should drink this one more slowly, if you want to keep any of it down.”

Aziraphale nodded his thanks and took a sip. Crowley shifted to accommodate him, wrapping himself more firmly around Aziraphale’s shoulders and trying to find a warm fold in Aziraphale’s clothing to burrow his head into. He was due for a nice long nap and could think of no better place to take one.

“So it’s Aziraphale, then?” Bert asked. “Not _A._ Ziraphale?”

Aziraphale gave him a rueful smile. “Afraid so.”

Bert shook his head in disbelief. “Nineteen years,” he said. “ _Nineteen years_ trying to guess what the A. stood for—did you just _make ‘Ambrose’ up?_ ”

Aziraphale nodded a bit sheepishly. Crowley adjusted his position again, questing across Aziraphale’s torso this time, beginning to loop back towards his other shoulder.

The hand Aziraphale was holding the peach with moved to Crowley, and for a moment Crowley thought he wanted him to refrain from looping around his neck—a request he would have readily obliged—but instead Aziraphale just started carefully stroking Crowley’s scales.

Encouraged, Crowley continued his quest to see how many times he could wrap himself around Aziraphale, feeling abstractly that, maybe if he could secure Aziraphale physically, he would be able to secure him in other ways too.

“Congratulations on your engagement,” Aziraphale said hoarsely to Bert, taking another sip of water. “Crowley told me all about it.”

Bert nodded, looking a little surprised. “Th—thanks.”

“How’sss the peach?” Crowley asked, head emerging from around Aziraphale’s far shoulder.

“Quite good,” Aziraphale said, forgoing stroking Crowley’s scales for a moment to take another bite.

“Crowley said you used to be an angel,” Bert said.

Aziraphale nodded, giving Crowley’s scales another stroke. It was very relaxing, and Crowley settled into his position on Aziraphale’s shoulders.

“You’ve been to Heaven…” Bert continued cautiously. “How good do you have to be to get in? When you die, I mean. How strict is it?” He sounded rather concerned.

“Depends on your definition of ‘strict,’” Aziraphale said, running another finger along Crowley’s side, being careful to move lightly over the tiny cuts. “Heaven and Hell exert about the same influence, overall…what do you think, Crowley, about fifty-fifty?”

“Sssomething like that,” Crowley agreed, flicking out a tongue. The peach gave off the strongest scent, sweet and sticky and divine.

“Fifty-fifty chance of going to Heaven or Hell?” Bert repeated, sounding incredulous and a little insulted. “How on earth do they calculate that?”

Aziraphale shrugged, Crowley rising and falling with the motion. “God’s the one who does the dividing up. I don’t think you have anything to worry about, though.”

Bert frowned and nodded, but he still looked a little concerned.

Aziraphale took another sip of water.

“And…God? What’s He like?”

Aziraphale shrugged again. “Divine. Ineffable. About what you’d expect.”

“Absssent,” Crowley hissed, considering nosing his way into the tight, dark space under Aziraphale’s collar. “Hasssn’t been ssseen in over a millennium.”

“He sends instructions from time to time,” Aziraphale said defensively.

“If you sssay ssso, angel,” Crowley hissed, deciding he’d save the collar-exploration for another time.

“Is He…kind?”

Aziraphale shrugged and took another sip of water. “Most of the time. Was a bit short, early on…”

“Ever heard of Sssodom and Gomorrah?” Crowley interjected. “Or the plaguesss of Egypt?”

“He did mellow out, though, over time, I think,” Aziraphale said thoughtfully, taking a final bite of the peach.

“Have you met Him?”

Aziraphale turned the sticky peach pit over in his hand thoughtfully, and Crowley was pleased when he returned to slowly running the back of one of his fingers over his coils. “I suppose I must have, when He created me—He made all of the angels by hand in the beginning. But He’s not really someone you _meet_ , not for regular angels or demons like Crowley or I. What do you think, my dear?”

“Sssoundsss about right,” Crowley agreed. “Can’t sssay I remember ssseeing Him in perssson, but then again, I wasssn’t in Heaven for very long.”

Bert opened his mouth to ask something else—all these questions were a little tiring, but only to be expected, Crowley supposed—but this time Aziraphale held up a hand.

“Before we continue, maybe we could move this conversation to the back room? There’s a sofa.”

Aziraphale started to stand, but he began listing to one side almost immediately, Bert hastening to steady him. Crowley, feeling the world sway alarmingly, tightened his grip on Aziraphale’s shoulders. Aziraphale’s hand, the one still holding the peach pit, went to one of the loops of Crowley’s coils around his neck, and he realised Aziraphale was also making sure he wasn’t about to fall off.

“Here, I can take that,” Bert said, and Aziraphale handed him the peach pit. “Let’s sit you down, and I can get you some more water.”

“Maybe something to eat as well,” Aziraphale said hopefully, and Crowley perked up. “There isn’t much here, and I know it’s the middle of the night, but there might be some places that still do delivery. Neither of us have eaten in days, and Crowley here keeps running himself to the point of exhaustion.”

Crowley made a sound of protest, but Bert was already nodding hastily. “Of course! Yes, God, you should have said something! Here—” He helped Aziraphale to the back of the bookshop, Crowley enjoying the ride and having his vision at person-height again.

They made the back room and Aziraphale sank gratefully onto the sofa. “Just a little lightheaded is all,” he said, and Crowley tightened protectively around him.

“I’ll go look for something from one of those shops outside,” Bert said. He half-straightened up and glanced at Crowley. “Er, what do you want?”

“Fish and chipsss sssoundsss tasssty.”

Bert blinked at him, and for a moment he thought the barman was going to say something, but then he just shook his head and left the room.

When he was gone, Aziraphale let out a long breath and leaned back against the sofa. Crowley shifted around his neck until they were both comfortable. Aziraphale seemed suddenly very tired, eyes drifting shut, and Crowley adjusted himself nervously. He nudged at Aziraphale’s jaw with his nose.

“You okay, angel?”

Aziraphale blinked his eyes open and turned his head towards Crowley’s. “Yeah, just…tired. Didn’t let myself—didn’t want to…risk losing you.”

It took Crowley a moment to realise what he meant. “I wouldn’t have left you behind.”

Aziraphale shrugged. “Could have happened on accident.”

Concerned, Crowley felt his body tensing around Aziraphale instinctively, and he forced himself to relax. “Do you think the peach worked?” he asked, hoping to steer the conversation onto safer ground. “It’sss cccertainly made you physssical…”

“It worked,” Aziraphale confirmed, raising a hand to stroke down Crowley’s back. “I can feel it.”

Crowley remembered what mortality felt like—remembered it from that moment the two of them had been intertwined so closely they couldn’t fully separate which parts of themselves had belonged to which. He had felt, then, an emotion that he was convinced he could never have understood without having felt it first.

Crowley had never consciously been aware of his immortality, had never been able to understand what part of himself it was that rendered himself outside of the easy reaches of time or Death. But when he had touched that part of Aziraphale, he had suddenly acquired the ability to understand exactly what mortality felt like to an immortal, as sight must to a blind man.

In all his years, Crowley had never known the kiss of mortality and didn’t know how Aziraphale had lived with it for so long. The humans, he supposed, lived with it their entire lives, and must have learned to accept and ignore the pain of it, but he wished yet again he had done more for Aziraphale during their time in Midfarthing. Because being mortal didn’t mean living and then, one day, dying all at once; to live a mortal life _was_ to die, a little bit each day and with every breath.

Aziraphale tapped at one of the coils wrapped around his neck, and Crowley abruptly realised he had tensed again, tightening his grip inadvertently around Aziraphale’s throat, and rather strongly too.

Crowley slackened his grip immediately and started slithering off Aziraphale’s shoulders and onto the back of the sofa. “Sssorry,” he hissed, taking care to make sure he left plenty of slack around Aziraphale’s neck as he disentangled himself.

“No, it’s all right,” Aziraphale said hoarsely, setting a hand gently on one of Crowley’s coils as he slid away from him. “You don’t have to leave, my dear.”

Crowley paused, head already a little under a metre away on the back of the sofa, his tail just finishing slipping free of Aziraphale’s hand. He didn’t particularly _want_ to leave Aziraphale, but he didn’t want to accidentally strangle him either.

Aziraphale was looking after him, skin still a little pale, blue eyes bright and worried.

“You sure?” Crowley hissed.

Aziraphale motioned for him to come back. “Of course.”

Crowley hesitated a moment longer and then worked his way slowly off the back of the sofa, dropping down onto the cushions and heading back towards his friend. He didn’t trust himself around Aziraphale’s neck right now, though, so he settled for slithering into his lap instead.

The former angel seemed pleased enough with this arrangement, and returned to stroking Crowley as he settled in.

“That sword really _was_ sharp, wasn’t it?” Aziraphale said, sounding a little distressed as he ran his hand over the scabs riddling Crowley’s scales.

“Annoyingly sharp,” Crowley agreed, finding Aziraphale’s hand and nudging it with his head. “But at leassst it wasssn’t flaming.”

Aziraphale huffed a laugh and began scratching Crowley under his chin.

That was how Bert found them when he arrived a few minutes later, carrying a small bag of shawarma.

“Couldn’t find any chip shops open,” Bert said as he handed out the Middle Eastern wraps in their foil casings. “But apparently Soho has enough midnight patrons to merit an all-night shawarma shop. You’re lucky it’s a Friday night.”

“This looks fabulous, thank you,” Aziraphale said, rolling down the foil and starting in on his immediately.

“That’s quite a car outside the shop,” Bert said as he carefully unwrapped Crowley’s shawarma on the small table near the end of the sofa. “Is that one yours, Crowley? I remember you talking about a vintage Bentley.”

“The very sssame,” Crowley agreed, slithering over. Usually he would have delighted in this opportunity to fill in his woefully ignorant conversational partner on all of the reasons the Bentley was a wholly superior vehicle to all others, but right now he was too hungry and tired to give the topic the proper attention it deserved.

“Er, does that work?” the barman asked, splaying out the foil and apparently at a loss as to what to do next.

“Sure,” Crowley hissed, working his way up the arm of the sofa and tasting the air. The shawarma smelled absolutely delicious. “Thanksss, Bert.”

Crowley sank his fangs into a piece of tomato and swallowed it with some difficulty. He got the hang of it soon enough, though, sinking his teeth in and then working whatever it was he’d grabbed into his throat bit by bit. It was less than graceful and snake metabolisms weren’t really built for lettuce and onions, but he was starving and didn’t care.

Aziraphale did have to come over and tear the flatbread wrap into smaller pieces for him, which was a little embarrassing, but the former angel didn’t seem to mind and there was no way Crowley could have managed it by himself.

Crowley only ate half of it anyway before he began to feel regrettably full, and there were several noticeable lumps further down his body.

“Thanks for everything, Bert,” Aziraphale told the barman as he crinkled up his piece of foil. “We’d still be stuck in Iran if it weren’t for you.”

“It was my honour, really,” Bert said. “Finding out the truth about everything—that _God_ is real—and seeing you again…”

“Crowley will reimburse you for your trouble,” Aziraphale said. “Once we get him turned back.”

Bert waved him off. “Don’t worry about it. It was a favour.”

Aziraphale looked surprised, but accepted Bert’s refusal with grace.

Now that he had eaten, Crowley was beginning to feel his exhaustion setting in again, and began curling himself into a loose ball.

“You’re not going to, I dunno, wipe my memory or anything, are you?” Bert asked, sounding a little worried at the prospect. “It’s not an ‘if I told you I’d have to kill you’ type thing, is it?”

“No, no,” Aziraphale said. “Mind you, I wouldn’t be spreading it around if I were you.”

Bert gave a laugh. “As if anyone would believe me.”

Aziraphale gave him an amused smile. “I don’t know when we’ll be able to go back to Midfarthing— _if_ we can—but do say hello to everyone. For Crowley, of course. I believe I’m still officially deceased.”

Crowley had succeeded in curling himself into a respectable pile and was trying to find a good place to stick his head to block out the light.

“Oi, you can’t be expecting me to leave now?” Bert protested. “I’ve just found out you’re not dead, that angels and demons are real, and one of my best mates is a literal _snake_ —I’m not ducking out now!”

“But you’re getting married!” Aziraphale said, aghast. Crowley tucked his head into his coils and tried to block out their voices. “And you’ve got to run the pub.”

“My brother’s down from York, he’s helping out,” Bert assured him. “And Donnie and Harper are looking after it too—” Bert’s voice broke off for a moment. “ _Shit_ ,” he said. “Harper—I’ve got to tell Harper, don’t I? He’ll be thrilled to know you’re still alive. He took it really hard.” Bert’s tone flipped back to horror. “He’s never going to believe me, though. He’s going to think I’ve gone absolutely mental. Ohhh, and _this_ explains why Crowley was acting so differently when he came back from abroad—”

Crowley started to drift off then, Bert and Aziraphale’s voices blending together in a reassuring murmur of sound, the presence of his angel a bright, steady warmth beside him.


	16. Spellwork

_Aziraphale watched as Crowley reached up for the peach, fingers mere centimetres away, but he knew something had gone terribly wrong because Crowley had gone as white as a sheet._

_He pulled the peach from the Tree, the branch shaking with the movement, and then every inch of his body went rigid. Crowley let out an abrupt gasp as though all of the air had been knocked from his lungs, and he fell to his knees._

_Aziraphale started forward, alarm tearing through him, but Crowley was falling,_ falling _, and now he was gasping for breath on the ground, chest struggling to rise, fingers clutching at the grass. The peach rolled towards Aziraphale’s feet, a poor consolation for the sight of Crowley’s beautiful golden eyes sliding closed as he grew completely still._

_Aziraphale still felt the sensation of falling, but it wasn’t Crowley anymore, it was him, Falling, and fire was dancing along his wings—and then he was clinging to Crowley, and they were falling together, paralysed, spinning out of control—_

_Crowley had left over half an hour ago and still not returned, and he didn’t appear in the mirror no matter how many times Aziraphale shook it and said his name, and he knew Heaven must have him in their power for a second time—or was it a journal Aziraphale was holding, now tossing it into the fireplace, mind as empty as an unused teacup, and he was so completely and utterly_ alone _—_

_Aziraphale was standing in front of his grave in Midfarthing, looking down at the plain headstone, except that it wasn’t unmarked anymore; Crowley’s name was chiselled into it in his own neat copperplate handwriting. Nearby, a few white feathers rested on top of the rectangle of dark earth, pristine and beautiful. Aziraphale dropped to his knees and grabbed at the feathers, terrified, trying to pull them away from the clutches of the earth. The moment his fingers brushed them, they grew red, blood blossoming across the iridescent vanes, and Aziraphale knew with a panicked, sickening feel exactly whose blood it was._

_He started scrabbling in the earth, desperate to disprove the name on the headstone, and Kazariel watched idly from where she was standing over him, saying that she could sell those feathers for him if he wanted a little extra money on the side._

_Aziraphale was up to his thighs in the soft earth, pushing aside the feathers and digging further down, thinking that Crowley must be trapped, because it was_ Aziraphale’s _grave, after all—_

 _A heartbeat later, Aziraphale was the one in_ _the grave, the weight of the earth crushing him. He clawed his way desperately upwards, fingernails tearing and earth clogging in his throat, but he couldn’t feel Crowley anywhere. He needed to find the former demon, because if they were separated now he knew he’d never find him again, and he had to tell Crowley he wasn’t dead—_

Aziraphale gasped into wakefulness, hands scrambling to push his blankets off. His throat was still raw from his days of dehydration, and it took him a breathless moment to recognise that it had only been a dream. He gasped in another breath and struggled to calm his hammering heart. It looked like it was either mid-morning or mid-afternoon, judging by the light slanting between the blinds, and it took him another moment to place where he was: the slightly less-dusty of the two bedrooms above his bookshop.

He swallowed, the sensation grating against his throat. Aziraphale twisted in the bed, still struggling to shake the lingering traces of the nightmare, and his eyes latched onto the glass of water he’d left by the side of the bed.

Aziraphale drained it as slowly as he could force himself to, enjoying the cool feeling of the water on his throat. He sat there for a long moment, letting himself wake fully. He felt his racing heart begin to slow and did his best to shake the memory of the dream.

He hadn’t had a nightmare in over a year, not since he’d arrived in Heaven. He was beginning to realise how nice that had been. He supposed he could expect them on a near-nightly basis now.

Aziraphale scrubbed a hand over his face, sighed, and headed downstairs.

He found Bert sitting behind the counter with a box of doughnuts and a coffee.

“Morning, Mr Officially Deceased,” Bert said cheerily, and nudged the box of doughnuts with his hand. “Have one, they’re quite good.”

Aziraphale plucked one from the box. “Where’s Crowley?”

“Wandered off over there,” Bert said, gesturing to the front of the shop. “Said something about scaring off customers.”

Aziraphale moved in the indicated direction, taking a bite of his doughnut as he did so. It tasted absolutely marvellous.

He found Crowley stretched out in a pool of sunlight on one of the windowsills at the front of the shop, gazing lazily through the window at passersby. He did seem to be a decent customer deterrent, though, because every person who noticed him blanched and moved to walk on the far side of the pavement.

“Having fun, my dear?” Aziraphale asked.

“Sssomething like that,” Crowley hissed pleasantly.

Aziraphale offered him his doughnut, but Crowley shook his head. “Ssstill full from yesssterday. Takesss a while to digessst, I think.”

Aziraphale shrugged and took another bite himself. “Have you started getting your powers back at all?” he asked, leaning against the end of one of his bookcases.

“No,” Crowley said, sounding a little worried about it himself. “And I should have by now, at leassst a little.” He swung his head around so he could get a better look at Aziraphale. “I could live without my powersss, all thingsss consssidered, but I don’t really want to be a ssserpent forever.”

Aziraphale nodded. “I’ll start looking into the sigil, see if I can find a book translating that writing around the edge. If we can reverse it, or break it—assuming the sigil is what’s preventing you from regaining your powers—then you should be able to start recharging them again.”

Crowley nodded and started shifting from his spot on the windowsill, stretching his head towards Aziraphale. “How can I help?”

“Do you think you can turn pages?”

 

~~***~~

 

It turned out that there was exactly one copy of the book translating the writing of God into Old High Enochian—which Aziraphale was fluent in, naturally—still on Earth. It had survived the years by passing between royal collections as a curiosity, mostly of interest because the cover was heavily gilded and encrusted with jewels. Anyone who had ever bothered to open the book and glanced across the sea of meaningless symbols quickly closed it again. This meant that, after all of these years, the cover was in shambles, priceless gems pried free and gilt corners thoroughly destroyed, but the interior pages were in impeccable condition.

Aziraphale bought it over the phone from the stuffy Austrian collector who’d picked it up at an auction several decades ago, and they settled on the tidy sum of four hundred pounds.

It arrived at the bookshop two days later—Aziraphale had paid extra for next-day delivery—and he sat down to read it immediately.

Meanwhile, Bert and Crowley continued picking their way through the pile of books Aziraphale had selected as being potentially useful. Bert seemed far too interested in actually reading the material, and Crowley’s eyes quickly grew tired of focussing—snakes weren’t particularly known for their good eyesight—so between them they made dismally slow progress.

Three hours later, Aziraphale had decoded the writing along the edge of the sigil. It was largely what they’d been expecting, but with a good deal of showy titles thrown in as well: ‘I, THE METATRON, SCRIBE OF THE MOST HIGH, DO HEREBY INSCRIBE THIS SIGIL. I IMBUE IT WITH ALL THE POWERS OF HEAVEN AND THE FOLLOWING SIGNED, TO PERFORM THE FOLLOWING TASK: WHOSOEVER STEPS INTO THIS CIRCLE IS HEREBY BOUND. THE LORD ON HIGH, GOD, FORBIDS ANY FROM THE RACE OF MAN TO STEP HEREIN AND TAKE FROM THIS TREE, SO ANY WHO DO SO SHALL BE STRUCK DOWN. IF ANY OTHER STEPS INTO THIS CIRCLE, THEY SHALL BE DRAINED OF THEIR POWERS, ENERGIES, AND DIVINE ABILITIES, TO THE BROADEST AND MOST PERMANENT EXTENT. THIS IS THE WILL OF OUR LORD AND GOD, YHWH. THIS THAT IS WRITTEN SHALL BE SO, NOW AND FOREVER.’

“Blimey,” Crowley hissed when Aziraphale finished reading his translation to them. “I for one am _very glad_ you didn’t ssstep in there. ‘Shall be ssstruck down?’ Sssounds like a euphemisssm for ‘killed’ to me.”

“And we also now know that it was the Metatron who was the seraph,” Aziraphale pointed out. “His seal, and the seven archangels. And he _is_ Father’s scribe, so he would have known the language.”

“Okay, so how do we break the spell?” Bert asked, looking back and forth between them.

Aziraphale’s mouth twisted in worry. “I don’t know.”

“What do you mean, you don’t know?” Crowley hissed, suddenly significantly more concerned than he had been a moment before. He’d just assumed that Aziraphale could work out how to break any spell.

“There are a couple of ways to break a spell,” Aziraphale explained, looking between the two of them. “Exploiting weaknesses and loopholes in the glyphs is the easiest, but that doesn’t apply here because there’s the conditional statement, and it looks pretty watertight. Sometimes you can override statements like this with higher language, but we can’t do that because there _is_ no higher language we can use. And, as far as I can tell, there’re no errors in the internal construction of the sigil—given that it was a forty-nine-point star, presumably someone knew what they were doing. There might be other ways to break the sigil, other workarounds, but those are the only ones I know of off the top of my head. Since of course we can’t just break it directly.”

Crowley hissed agreement.

Bert looked back and forth between them. “Break it directly? Why not?”

Aziraphale tapped his finger against the piece of paper in his hand, which held the translation. “You’d need to directly overcome the power of the sigil, which in this case is imbued with the power of seven archangels and a seraph. We don’t have a drop of ethereal power among us, and even if Crowley did, he’d only be a throne.”

“Well, we managed to use those—what were they called?—minor sigils?—to draw power from Heaven—couldn’t we do that again, and just use more of them?”

Aziraphale gave Bert a patient smile. “I don’t think you understand the magnitudes at play here.”

“Well, then explain them to me.”

Aziraphale outlined the choirs of angels, explaining that the amount of raw ethereal power a given angel possessed increased sevenfold with each choir. “So the power wielded by seven archangels and a seraph literally outnumbers that of _every other angel in Heaven_ _combined_ , other seraphim excluded. Using minor sigils would be a drop in the ocean. We might even need more space than the Earth even has just to write them all down.”

Bert looked suitably impressed by this. “But you said seraphim are the highest order, right? And seven archangels equal one seraph?”

“Choirs, not orders,” Aziraphale corrected, “and power-wise the seven archangels equal one seraph, yes.”

“So instead of using a lot of little things, how about we just use a few big things? I don’t suppose we could convince any of these other archangels or seraphim to help out?”

Aziraphale snorted.

“There are only ssseven archangelsss,” Crowley hissed. “And all ssseven of them helped make thisss ssspell.”

“And there are only six seraphim,” Aziraphale picked up. “Three Fell, and three didn’t. The Metatron’s one. Sandelaphon’s another, but he doesn’t really talk to anyone much, and Cassiel hasn’t been seen or heard from in four millennia.”

“Lucccifer wasss one of the Fallen,” Crowley continued. “Not exxxactly likely to help out. And then there’sss Beelzebub, but he hatesss me essspecially, and Mephissstophelesss doesssn’t talk to anyone either. Don’t have to when you’re that powerful.”

“And to counteract the Metatron and seven archangels, we’d need two seraphim minimum,” Aziraphale added. “That would _equal_ the power in the spell, but we’d need a little something extra to tilt the balance in our favour to break it. Though Kazariel could probably help out with that. A throne would be enough.”

“But we’d never get two ssseraphim to help,” Crowley dismissed. “Not in a million yearsss. Not for sssomething that doesssn’t materially, immediately, and sssubssstantially benefit them.”

Bert frowned. “Well, then, what are our other options?”

Aziraphale tapped the edge of the paper thoughtfully against the surface of the counter. “Try to find a way to break the spell from inside, like I was suggesting,” he said, “or we accept that Crowley won’t be able to recharge his powers, and just try to find a way to get him human-shaped again. There might be another way to break the spell, but in the short-term that might be all we can do for now.”

“I’d be happy with that,” Crowley hissed. Though it had been awfully nice to be able to use his powers again, he _had_ spent most of the last two decades hardly using them at all, and he could learn to do so again if necessary. Aziraphale had lived without powers since his Fall anyway. Besides, he and Aziraphale were both safe, immortal, and on Earth, and that was really all he could ask for.

“I’ll keep looking into ways to break sigils,” Aziraphale said, “and you two can start looking through these books for anything about ways to shift forms. Even a major-sigil spell would work—we can get Kazariel to cast it if need be.”

Crowley nodded and turned back to the book he’d been skimming. He flipped back to the front with his tail. “Shape-shifting, indeed…”

 

~~***~~

 

“A _ziraphale?”_ Newt’s voice exploded from the mobile, and Aziraphale moved the phone a few inches away from his ear.

“Er, yes?” Aziraphale said cautiously, once he thought Newt had adjusted his volume level.

“Cor _blimey_ , we thought you were dead! Does Crowley know?”

Aziraphale opened his mouth to respond, but Newt carried on over him.

“Well, of course he does! You’re answering his mobile, after all.” Newt paused. “Wait, right?”

“Yes, he knows,” Aziraphale said in as calming of a voice as he could muster, glancing over at where Crowley was coiled up on the counter, dozing next to a pile of books.

“Hang on, is _he_ all right?” Newt asked. “I got a really bizarre voicemail—”

“We’re both fine,” Aziraphale assured him. “Though, er, Crowley is currently stuck as a snake.”

There was a pause. “A…what?”

“There was a spell, and he ended up shifting into a snake, and now he can’t change back. I don’t suppose you or Anathema would have any pointers on that? Or Agnes, for that matter?”

“Um,” said Newt. “I’ll talk to Anathema and see if we can come up with anything.”

“Thanks,” Aziraphale said.

There was another pause, and Aziraphale was about to hang up when Newt said, “Just— _bloody hell_ , Aziraphale— _how are you not dead?”_

Aziraphale sighed patiently and set about explaining it all again.

 

~~***~~

 

“Okay, this one says it’s supposed to ‘transform the form’ of a thing,” Bert reported, looking up from his book.

“Major or minor sigil?” Aziraphale asked.

“Er,” Bert said, looking back down at the book. “Minor?”

“One line or two around the outside of the circle?” Aziraphale asked, eyes still on his own book.

“One,” Bert relayed.

“Really?” Aziraphale asked, looking up.

Crowley slithered over to get a closer look, abandoning the book he’d been hazily trying to read. His vision was still rather terrible, and getting worse, he’d noticed with some alarm, but he could see that the diagram of the sigil in the book Bert was reading was only ringed with one circle.

“Minor,” Crowley confirmed.

Aziraphale stood up and moved over, taking the book from Bert. Crowley slithered closer to Aziraphale and had successfully wound himself up Aziraphale’s arm to his elbow before the former angel noticed.

He sighed and started patiently unwrapping Crowley from his arm. “Crowley, my dear, really—”

“Do you think it’ll work?” Bert asked.

“We can certainly give it a try,” Aziraphale said, unlooping Crowley coil by coil. “It looks like it’s designed for inanimate objects, but I don’t think it would have an adverse effect if it doesn’t work correctly.”

“Cool,” Bert said. “Can I do it? This is one of those that doesn’t need intrinsic magic, right? I want to cast a spell…”

It took them about five minutes to copy the relatively uncomplicated sigil onto the surface of the counter with the chalk, and Aziraphale deposited Crowley (who had convinced Aziraphale to pick him up when he kept nudging at his hand) on top of it.

“All right, Bert, have at it,” Aziraphale said.

Bert cleared his throat and read, “ _Animach lez bezoat alkoshot myne ha-vo et be eckt magel malaze la shooma la shoon la shyna._ ” He glanced at the sigil, and then said, “Serpent to human form.”

Nothing happened.

Crowley wondered idly how soon he could go back to pestering Aziraphale for a chin-scratch. Reading these books was becoming awfully tedious.

Aziraphale tried the spell next, and then some variations on the incantation, but with no luck.

“Must be for inanimate objects only,” Aziraphale said, shrugging. “I thought as much. Nice find, though, Bert. I think we’re going to have to get Kazariel in and try out a couple of major sigils.”

 

~~***~~

 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said one day, thoughtfully, addressing the serpent wrapped around his neck, “why do you think you turned into a snake when the warding was affecting you?”

“Mmm, what’d you mean?” Crowley hissed sleepily.

“You were a serpent in Eden,” Aziraphale said, running his finger along the edge of the book in his hands, “but you can shift into pretty much anything, right? So why a serpent?”

“I dunno,” Crowley said, voice sounding a little slurred.

“If it was because it was a…I don’t know…lower level of complexity or something,” Aziraphale said, “why didn’t you turn into a flea or something?”

“True form,” Crowley mumbled, nudging his head against Aziraphale’s clavicle.

“You said that before,” Aziraphale said, trying to ignore the fact that Crowley was apparently trying to crawl into the area underneath his overturned collar, and it rather tickled, “but what did you mean?”

Crowley didn’t respond, though he did shift around his neck as he succeeded in sticking his head several inches into Aziraphale collar.

Aziraphale sighed and gently pulled Crowley free. The serpent hissed in annoyance.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said as patiently as he could, “What did you mean by ‘true form?’”

Crowley just looked at him for a moment, and Aziraphale wondered if he was trying to convey some emotion that serpentine faces weren’t designed for.

Then he said, “Alwaysss had one. A true form. Doesssn’t everyone?”

“No,” Aziraphale said. “Not an animal form, at least. I don’t.”

“No…true form?” Crowley hissed, voice sounding oddly slurred again. “Doesss that make you a…a…falssse form?” Crowley seemed to think that rather clever of himself, but Aziraphale just frowned at him.

“Are you drunk?”

“Me?” Crowley asked, sounding a little surprised by the question. “No.” He _did_ sound sober, apart from the slur in his voice.

“Hmpf,” Aziraphale said, but decided to believe him. Crowley started moving through his hands again, and Aziraphale sighed and let him go.

Several minutes later, Crowley returned to tucking his head into Aziraphale’s collar, and not longer after that he fell asleep that way.

 

~~***~~

 

“Hey, Ziraphale. Sorry, _Aziraphale_ ,” Bert said one morning as the former angel arrived downstairs and started in on one of the pastries Bert had bought, “do you think there’s something off with Crowley?”

Aziraphale paused in the middle of taking a bite of the truly delicious raspberry cream pastry. He cast Bert a suspicious glance. “What do you mean?”

Bert shifted slightly on the stool behind the counter, where he appeared to have taken up semi-permanent residence. “Well, he said he was hungry the other day, but he didn’t seem interested in anything I gave him.”

Aziraphale frowned. “What did you give him?”

“Normal stuff,” Bert said, a little defensively. “There was some leftover pizza in the fridge, but he didn’t want that, and he turned his nose up at fish and chips, and pastries this morning too.”

“I don’t think he has to eat very often,” Aziraphale pointed out.

“That’s what I thought too,” Bert said, “Except it _has_ been over a week since he last had anything, and he _said_ he was hungry.”

“Hm,” Aziraphale hummed, a little worried. Now that he was thinking about it, Crowley _had_ been acting a little strange these last few days—he’d about given up on reading through the books, for one thing, and had taken to sleeping an awful lot as well.

“I’ll talk to him,” Aziraphale said. “Do you know where he is?”

Bert shrugged. “He was down here earlier. I went to get coffee from across the street and he was gone when I came back.”

Aziraphale nodded, set his half-eaten pastry on the counter, and began walking through the bookshop. It was raining outside, so there were no handy pools of sunlight for Crowley to be sunning himself in. After a while of searching, he found his friend curled into a ball on the bottom shelf of one of his bookcases, apparently fast asleep.

“There you are, Crowley,” Aziraphale said, squatting and running a finger carefully down the serpent’s side.

Crowley started awake, all of his coils shifting as one, and Aziraphale reached down to give the underside of his chin a scratch. Crowley jerked away violently at the movement, and Aziraphale quickly pulled his hand back.

For a moment they just stared at each other, Crowley’s flanks heaving as he stared back at Aziraphale with those golden eyes, pupils blown wide in fear.

“Good morning,” Aziraphale said, a little nervously. “Sorry about the rude awakening.”

Crowley stayed still for a moment more, and then his tongue flicked out and he started to relax, coils beginning to unwind. “Hi, angel,” he hissed, voice still a little slurred. He inched his head forward, pupils slowly shrinking back to their regular dimensions. “What’sss up?”

“Bert says you haven’t been eating.”

“Ssso?” Crowley asked, beginning to slither off the shelf.

“He says you said you were hungry.”

“Well, I’m not anymore,” Crowley hissed, and began making his way along the floor of the bookshop.

“Are you sure?” Aziraphale asked worriedly. “If there’s something in particular you want, we can pick it up.”

“I’m fine, angel,” Crowley said, and he must have realised he sounded rather short because he added, a bit more gently, “Don’t worry about it.”

Aziraphale chewed the inside of his cheek, but decided to let the matter rest.

Crowley slithered back in the direction of the counter and Aziraphale followed him, taking care to mind his feet. Aziraphale moved to take up his position on his stool, this one a spare they’d found upstairs and transferred to the bookshop side of the counter. Crowley stopped near its base and looked up at him expectantly.

“Would you mind…?” Crowley hissed, voice slurring again.

Aziraphale reached down and carefully picked the serpent up. He moved to set him on the counter, but Crowley made a show of falling into his lap instead, so Aziraphale let him.

Bert glanced up at them from where it looked like he was reading the news on his mobile. He gave Aziraphale a questioning look and Aziraphale shrugged.

Crowley rearranged himself in Aziraphale’s lap as Aziraphale picked up his half-eaten pastry from the counter. He broke off a small piece and left it on his fingers, offering it to the serpent in his lap.

Crowley inspected his hand with careful little movements of his head, tongue flicking out.

“It’s raspberry,” Aziraphale told him.

Crowley poked at it with his nose and scooped a tiny piece into his mouth, fangs brushing Aziraphale’s fingers. It seemed to take him a few moments to swallow it. Aziraphale left his hand out, so Crowley could have more if he wanted.

“I think I’m going to phone Kazariel later this morning,” Aziraphale announced to both Crowley and Bert. “We’ve got three major sigils that might do the trick, and I’m going to finish trying to adapt that minor sigil you found, Bert; I’m trying to rewrite it as a major sigil.”

Bert nodded. “You say she’s a proper angel?” He cast Crowley a glance. “Not that you’re not, Crowley—”

“She’s never Fallen,” Aziraphale agreed. “I don’t know if she’d show you, but you could ask to see her wings if you wanted.”

He felt Crowley give up nosing at his hand, instead poking curiously around the edge of the counter. Aziraphale resisted the urge to lick the remaining crumbs off his hand.

“Wow,” Bert said. “She won’t smite me if I ask?”

Aziraphale laughed a little. “I don’t think so, but she _definitely_ doesn’t need magic to kill you.”

 

~~***~~

 

“ _Animach lez bezoat alkoshot myne et ats me_ ,” Kazariel read, standing in the circle opposite Crowley, “ _la ze-zey et so atoube eckazimbermon gal kohn azay sho iano shet._ ” She looked up expectantly.

Crowley looked back at her. Nothing happened.

Kazariel shifted her gaze back down to the piece of paper in hand, then over to where Aziraphale and Bert were standing expectantly nearby, and shrugged.

“Nothing appears to have happened.”

Aziraphale sighed. “All right, that was sort of to be expected,” he said. “I tried adapting that one from a minor sigil but I really don’t know how to construct major sigils. Ah well, we can try this one next…”

He showed her to the next circle. The floor of the bookshop was becoming increasingly littered with circles, and it was quickly becoming apparent they’d have to start scrubbing some of them off sooner or later.

Crowley, who was rather cold, tried piling himself up into a tighter bundle of coils.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said, and it took him a moment to register that Aziraphale was talking to him. Crowley located the former angel and saw that he was standing near the next circle, gesturing at him to come over.

Crowley uncoiled himself and slithered over obediently, coming to stop by Aziraphale’s feet.

“Okay,” Aziraphale said, stepping out of the circle. “This one’s the second incantation on that list.”

Kazariel looked down at the sheet of paper. “ _Animach lez bezoat alkoshot myne et ats me le scho nartazar ze physiche tu shamaman galazecken_ ,” she read, “ _belanziche et zu zwar physiche acclametz tozey_.”

Crowley felt something shift inside of him, but before it could do more than begin to twist, it vanished, sucked beneath him into an unseen void.

“That did something,” Kazariel announced, looking over at Crowley. “That took some of my magic.”

All three of them looked at Crowley.

“There wasss sssomething,” he agreed. The words were hard to form, threatening to fall off his tongue, but the idea was clear enough in his head.

“Like what?” Aziraphale asked.

Crowley considered. “Like I wanted to shift back,” he decided at last, dragging each word out of his uncooperating mouth, “but all the magic got sssucked away.”

Kazariel looked at Aziraphale. “What sort of sigil was it you said did this to him?”

Aziraphale looked slightly guilty. “A very powerful one.”

“Have you tried breaking it?” she asked as Aziraphale showed her to the next sigil. Crowley had enough presence of mind this time to remember he was supposed to move as well.

“Every way I know how,” Aziraphale said. “It was _really_ well-constructed.”

He held out his arm, indicating she should say the next incantation.

She did, and there was no response. Kazariel reported a slight drain on her powers, but she said they bounced back.

The fourth sigil performed much like the second, with a drain on Kazariel’s powers and a slight tugging in Crowley’s gut that vanished as soon as it arrived.

The consensus was that whatever was refusing to let Crowley’s powers recharge was preventing further spells from being cast upon him as well.

“We might actually be making it stronger,” Kazariel said to Aziraphale. Bert stood nearby and tried to look like he knew enough about what was being discussed to merit a place in the conversation. “It definitely took my magic, but if it’s draining from Crowley before it can have any effect, it’s probably just being collected by whatever spell’s already over him. It could potentially be _storing_ all of the power we try to put into it.”

Aziraphale looked even more concerned at the prospect, rubbing at his face worriedly. He was very blurry from this distance, but Crowley could tell he was worried. He always seemed to be worried.

Crowley thought he should probably be worried too, but the concept of him being trapped as a snake due to an Edenic sigil was a rather complicated one. Whenever he let it drift from his mind for a moment, he found he was quite content to simply never think of it again, until Aziraphale or Bert brought it up.

It frightened him a little, sometimes, but most of the time it seemed too complicated of a thing to be scared of, and his fear passed quickly.

Besides, Aziraphale was here, and he was clearly worrying enough for the both of them. Aziraphale, with his books and enough knowledge of magic and sigils that Crowley was confident in his ability to do…whatever it was they were trying to accomplish again. Aziraphale was here, and as long as he was Crowley knew he had nothing to be afraid of.

After a few moments, Crowley found he couldn’t quite remember what he’d been doing just then. He was cold and hungry, but when he tasted the air he found that Aziraphale was quite close, so he slithered over and nosed at his trouser leg.

It wasn’t long before Aziraphale leaned over and picked him up. Crowley was just beginning to relax into his hands, perfectly satisfied with this arrangement, when Aziraphale set him on the counter. The former angel tapped him on the nose, said something about behaving himself, and vanished.

Crowley was disoriented for a moment, and then realised that the sound of voices had ceased. He tasted the air, but no one else seemed to be in the immediate vicinity. Aziraphale was still generally nearby, though, so Crowley decided everything must be all right.

He was still cold, so he curled up into a pile on the counter. He was beginning to doze off when the sound of voices returned.

He pulled his head out of his coils to see that Aziraphale and Bert were seeing Kazariel out. Bert was thanking her for something.

Crowley’s mind felt a little fuzzy, like he was wading through waist-high water, though he did notice when Aziraphale touched him on the side.

“How are you doing, my dear?”

Crowley swung his head around and flicked his tongue out, locating Aziraphale by smell and the warmth of his presence as much as by sight.

 _Fine_ , Crowley said, and it took him a moment to realise that all he’d done was let out a contented hiss.

“Fine,” Crowley said again, forcing himself to actively form the word this time.

Aziraphale’s fingers stopped moving on his side, and Crowley could tell he was concerned.

“What’d Kazariel sssay?” Crowley asked, pouring all of his focus into the conversation.

“She doesn’t really know much more about sigils than I do, unfortunately,” Aziraphale said, returning to giving Crowley’s side a few short strokes with the back of a finger. “She’s thinking of going back up to Heaven; it sounds like things are heating up up there.”

Crowley nodded.

“I was wondering something myself, though,” Aziraphale said, taking a seat next to Crowley at the counter. He spent a moment looking at Crowley, and it took Crowley a few seconds to realise he was trying to meet his gaze.

“What?” Crowley asked.

“When you’ve been a snake before,” Aziraphale asked in a particularly delicate tone, “How long did you stay one?”

It took Crowley a few seconds to process the question, and then he felt a tremor of anxiety run through him. Every inch of himself sharpened, including his vision.

“What do you mean?” he hissed, thinking he might know the answer.

“How many days?” Aziraphale asked, and he sounded worried again. “In a row, I mean. Before you shifted back.”

Crowley thought, and it took him a frighteningly long time to recall the information. “Three or four daysss, topsss,” he hissed at last. “You don’t think—”

“I don’t know,” Aziraphale said, laying a gentle hand on one of Crowley’s coils. “You don’t seem to be yourself, my dear.”

“I’m—” Crowley began. _Fine_ was what he wanted to say, but there was an uncomfortable feeling in the pit of his stomach, and he knew Aziraphale was right.

“We’ll find a way to turn you back,” Aziraphale said, and there was a weight to his voice that it didn’t usually have. “I promise.”

“I’ll be okay,” Crowley said at last, and moved his head around to give Aziraphale’s hand a nudge. He desperately wanted Aziraphale to give his head a nice stroke or two, and to then just curl around his worried angel until both of them forgot what they were worried about.

“Let me know if you need anything,” Aziraphale said, and gave the top of Crowley’s head a gentle rub with his forefinger.

 _Sure_ , Crowley hissed, and then remembered to enunciate: “Sure.”

This only seemed to worry Aziraphale more, but he let Crowley wrap himself around his neck after that, and Crowley soon forgot the whole business as he let Aziraphale’s warmth seep into his chilled body.


	17. Theory vs. Practice

“Beginning to _what_?” Bert repeated, incredulous.

Aziraphale’s mouth twisted and he played nervously with the corner of the book in his hands. “Regress into an actual snake,” he repeated at last. “Or something like it.”

“Just because he hasn’t been eating?” Bert asked. “And because he seems to hiss every other word?”

“Those do seem to be the most obvious signs,” Aziraphale agreed worriedly, glancing over at where Bert was piling their scattered take-out boxes into a black bin bag in the back room. “But he’s been spending an awful lot of time sleeping, and I think he…forgets things sometimes.” Aziraphale hated the sound of the words on his lips, hated the implication that, after all of this, Crowley might be subjected to the same fate it had taken Aziraphale seven years to die from.

“But I thought he was an angel!” Bert protested. “Shouldn’t he be…I dunno…immune to that sort of thing?”

“With his powers, maybe,” Aziraphale agreed. “He says a serpent is his true form, but I’ve never heard of any other angels having true forms—our true forms are just our angelic selves. But it’s possible his powers are what keeps him—all of him, I mean—able to inhabit what’s essentially the body of an animal.” Aziraphale sat down heavily on the sofa. “Snakes just don’t have the…mental capacity, I suppose…to hold something as complex as the mind of an angel. If he had his powers, he could probably make it work indefinitely, but without them…” Aziraphale trailed off, shifting uncomfortably on the sofa. “I think he’s losing the parts of himself he doesn’t have space to house.”

There was a long silence.

“ _Shit_ ,” Bert said, setting down the bin bag. “That’s what happened to you, wasn’t it?”

Aziraphale cast him a glance. “Not quite,” he said. “When I Fell, I lost everything the human corporation couldn’t hold—powers, wings—but my mind didn’t go until later. I think that was just normal Alzheimer’s, to be honest with you.”

“But _still_ ,” Bert said. “Does this sort of thing happen to you two often?”

Aziraphale let out a huff of laughter and then regretted it. “Not as often as you’d think. Until recently, we were just counterparts in a long-drawn-out war. But we’re not doing what Above or Below want anymore. We’re so far off script at this point…I just don’t know.”

Aziraphale looked down at the book still in his hands. “It’s possible this would have happened regardless of whether or not he had his powers; he says he hasn’t stayed a snake for longer than a couple of days before. But if he _did_ have his powers, he could always just turn back, and it wouldn’t be a problem.” Aziraphale rubbed his cheek with the back of a hand. “He always did say he was afraid he’d shift one day and forget how to turn back.”

Bert blanched a little at that. “Well, what can we do, then? None of the spells worked, and Kazariel said it was just sucking in any magic she gave it.”

Aziraphale nodded. He’d been less concerned when it had seemed like they had all the time in the world to find a way to switch Crowley back, but now the sense of urgency he’d _finally_ thought he’d escaped from, after twenty years of living in its shadow, was back. It was a very familiar feeling in the pit of his stomach, and he wished that he might, just once, be able to go more than two weeks without feeling it.

Bert seemed to be waiting for a reply, though, so Aziraphale finally dragged out, “We could…just keep trying to break the spell, I suppose. There has to be some way to do it. _Somewhere_.”

Bert nodded slowly.

Aziraphale sighed. “I’m sorry about this, Bert. You can leave anytime, you know; you should be getting back to Donnie. It’s only a week to the wedding.”

“It was, ah, supposed to be this week, actually,” Bert said, a bit guiltily.

Aziraphale looked up at him in surprise. “I thought it was the 20th?”

“Er, no, it was the 13th,” Bert admitted, studiously returning his attention to crumpling their takeaway bags and stuffing them in the bin bag in his hand.

“That’s…hang on, that’s today!” Aziraphale stared at him, aghast.

“We rescheduled,” Bert said evasively. “It’s fine.”

“Oh, Bert, I’m so sorry,” Aziraphale said, horrified. He stood, crossed to Bert, and tugged the bin bag from his hands. “I’ll tidy up, you—you—you’re supposed to be _getting married_ —”

“It’s fine,” Bert said, trying to take the bin bag back from him. “It was my decision; I’m here because I want to be. Besides, all the arrangements are taken care of now.”

“Still,” Aziraphale protested.

“You two need all the help you can get,” Bert told him. “And Donnie will be stuck with me forever, she can wait another few days.” Bert took a deep breath and, when he pulled at the bin bag again, Aziraphale let him take it.

“You shouldn’t have,” Aziraphale said. “But thank you.” The truth was, he _was_ worried about Crowley, and with a second pair of eyes they could read through material twice as fast. “We’ll find some way to make it up to you.”

“Nah, don’t worry about it,” Bert said, returning to poking through the room, looking for litter. “We’re back to reading through your books again, then?”

Aziraphale let out a breath but let Bert divert the conversation. “There are a few more books we haven’t looked at yet, yes,” Aziraphale said. “They’re a little temperamental, and you really shouldn’t touch some of them, but I think you’ll be okay with the heavenly ones…”

 

~~***~~

 

The chill seemed to follow Crowley everywhere he went, doggedly haunting him and sapping him of any strength or warmth he managed to gain. He was tired all the time too, and it seemed like he couldn’t remember a time when he hadn’t been.

The only respite from the cold came when he could curl up in a pool of sunlight or wrap himself around Aziraphale, but it had been rainy for several days in a row now, and Aziraphale spent a lot of time running back and forth in the bookshop or scribbling things on pieces of paper. Sometimes, when Aziraphale looked like he’d be sitting in the same place for a while, Crowley would come over and try nosing up his shin, but Aziraphale would wave him away and say he was busy. Usually Crowley tried to curl up on him anyway, because he was just _so cold_ , and sometimes Aziraphale would let him, but he’d usually end up trying to get Crowley to eat something or entice a few words out of him.

Crowley wasn’t terribly interested in talking, but he did his best when Aziraphale asked him something. He could usually form the thought in his mind, but sometimes it got scrambled on its way to his mouth.

And Aziraphale seemed to have an endless number of seemingly random things to ask him about: how was he feeling today, did he want to try reading something to him, did he remember that time in Babylon?

It took Crowley what he later realised was probably a frighteningly long time to work out what Aziraphale was doing.

“I’m fine,” Crowley told him one day, when Aziraphale asked him about King Richard the Lionheart and Crowley’s memory was extremely fuzzy on the subject. “I’m jussst tired isss all. Onccce I can turn back, I’ll be fine. Who caresss about Richard anyway?”

Aziraphale sighed worriedly and returned to stroking him, but Crowley had enough presence of mind to know that Aziraphale, of all people, knew that it wasn’t the important things in your memory you lost first.

“We’re doing our best,” Aziraphale said. “We’ll find something, I promise.”

Crowley hissed agreement and tried to ignore the gnawing in his stomach as he burrowed closer to Aziraphale.

 

~~***~~

 

“Do you think he’s sick?” Bert asked one day as he and Aziraphale hunted through the bookshop, looking for Crowley. “I tried Googling snake behaviour, and it said hiding a lot and not eating were signs of poor health.”

“I don’t know,” Aziraphale fretted, squatting and shifting some books on one of the bottom shelves back and forth, looking for a glimmer of iridescent black scales among the shadows. Aziraphale’s fingers were cold on the spines, and he fumbled with one of the books as it did its best to tip over; he’d been chilly a lot recently.

“We could…I dunno, try taking him to a vet or something,” Bert suggested.

Aziraphale let out a short, strained laugh. “Yeah, that’d go over well.”

“Well, if he won’t eat anything,” Bert pointed out. “You’ve seen him, getting thinner every day. Google said lethargy and inactivity were other symptoms, and he hasn’t been doing much besides sleep the last few days.”

Aziraphale wanted to say something to refute Bert’s point, but he knew the barman was right. Crowley had been growing less like himself with every passing day.

“I doubt a veterinarian could help him,” Aziraphale said instead, moving along to shift some more books while Bert poked through the higher shelves; they’d once found Crowley hiding behind a row of books around shoulder-height. “He _is_ still an angel.”

“At least he’s immortal,” Bert said, shifting some books and sending a small curtain of dust onto Aziraphale’s head.

Aziraphale made a noncommittal noise.

Bert coughed, and it wasn’t clear whether or not it was from the dust. “Right?”

“In theory,” Aziraphale said, a little evasively.

“And in practice?”

“‘Immortal’…is a relative term,” Aziraphale said unhappily. “There are very few ways for an immortal to die, but it _is_ possible. He’s just immortal when it comes to dying…the regular ways.”

“There are irregular ways to die?”

“There are unusual ways to die,” Aziraphale corrected. “Holy water can kill a demon completely, and hellfire can do the same for an angel. And if an angel or demon is killed in their ethereal form—usually while in Heaven or Hell—they die completely too.”

“Well, he sounds okay where those are concerned,” Bert said, continuing to shift books.

“When an angel or demon is discorporated on Earth,” Aziraphale explained, “that means their corporation—their physical form—has been killed, but their ethereal self—their soul, if you will—is untouched.”

“Okay,” Bert said.

“Except that, when it happens,” Aziraphale continued, a tad worriedly, “it’s the intrinsic power of the angel or demon that draws them back to Heaven or Hell, respectively, using the wings as a conduit. Like calls to like; divinity to divinity, etcetera.”

“So without powers…?”

“I know an angel only needs a small piece of divine power to be able to return to Heaven,” Aziraphale said nervously, “but if Crowley can’t recharge even a _little_ …” His voice trailed off, and he felt fear grip itself tight around his heart with icy fingers. “Let’s say he’s immortal barring accidents.”

“Blimey,” Bert said.

“But if he starts forgetting himself, I don’t know how much of him will bounce back when we work out how to break the spell. Even if he can’t remember _how_ to turn back, one of those sigils we had Kazariel try out earlier would probably be able to return him to human shape…but I don’t know if this damage can be undone.”

“Oh,” Bert said, sounding considerably sobered.

“Which is why we need to break the spell as soon as possible,” Aziraphale said. “And make sure Crowley stays himself and alive until we can.”

Bert made a noise of agreement, and they returned to shifting books.

 

~~***~~

 

“Hang on, listen to this,” Bert said, looking down at the book in his hands, which he had picked up from one of the local used bookshops, and which was entitled _Basic Guide to Snake Care_. “‘Many common health problems among reptiles arise due to poor housing and handling, particularly inadequate heating, water, and feeding.’”

“Okay,” Aziraphale said, looking up from where he was flipping through _The Inner Workings of Angelicy_ and skimming the neatly written paragraphs for anything of use. He’d found the book quite by accident while looking for Crowley the previous day, sitting next to the missing hellish book on a shelf by themselves. “What does it say?”

Bert flipped to another page in the book, and a minute later said, “Oh. Well, that’s probably the problem.”

“What?” Aziraphale asked, alarmed.

“‘Snakes have a thermal preference for temperatures between 24 and 29.5 degrees Celsius,’” Bert read. “It’s even higher for subtropical and tropical snakes. And it sounds like humidity should be between 50–70%, depending on the species.” He looked up at Aziraphale. “No wonder he kept saying it was cold—it must be 20 degrees in here! And if he’s not from a temperate climate—”

“Oh dear,” Aziraphale agreed, standing up and temporarily abandoning _Inner Workings_ in favour of moving to Bert’s side and looking over his shoulder. The angelic book let out a soft swooshing noise of disappointment.

Bert pointed to three diagrams lying side by side on the same page, each showing a temperature readout in Celsius and Fahrenheit. There was a high-end and a low-end danger zone on each scale with an optimal temperature range in the middle. Aziraphale’s eyes raked down the leftmost scale, which was labelled “temperate,” and when he finally succeeded in locating the 20 / 68 degree mark, he saw with some trepidation that it was solidly outside of the optimal range. That range grew warmer in the subtropical and tropical climate diagrams, meaning that, in the latter diagram, their current room temperature was far from the suggested 28–30.5 degrees, and instead frighteningly close to the 15.5 degrees Celsius mark, which was labelled as the ‘critical thermal minimum.’

“He’s cold-blooded, right?” Bert said. “So he’s relying entirely on ambient temperature to keep himself warm. It must be freezing in here for him, and has been for weeks. Even worse if he’s tropical or subtropical.”

Aziraphale didn’t know what climate Crowley’s current shape was best suited to, but he knew he’d first seen him in this form in Eden, and Eden was a far cry from New Forest.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale called, leaving Bert’s side and beginning to hastily wander the bookshop, looking for his friend. Bert followed him, still reading from the book.

“It says the proper term for ‘cold-blooded’ is ‘ectothermic,’” Bert relayed. “And apparently the heart rate of snakes actually slows when they’re cold.”

“Crowley?” Aziraphale called again, moving to another part of the bookshop. Real worry was beginning to tinge his tone now, and he was starting to realise why Crowley had been so eager to curl up on his lap. He supposed he had assumed Crowley was cold, but he hadn’t thought that he might be _dangerously_ cold; no colder than a cat might be. Aziraphale remembered with mounting guilt all of the times he had turned Crowley’s questing nose aside and resolved to never do so again.

There was a stirring of recognition deep within Aziraphale, in the part of himself he associated most strongly with Crowley, and he knew his friend had heard him.

“My dear?” Aziraphale asked, moving further through the bookshop. There was a faint noise and a moment later Crowley appeared from around the edge of one of the bookcases, looking up at Aziraphale and Bert as they approached.

“Yesss, angel?” Crowley asked, yawning.

Aziraphale swooped down and picked Crowley up immediately, scooping him into his arms. Crowley let out a startled hiss and tightened his grip on every part of Aziraphale he could reach as the former angel pulled him away from the support of the ground.

Aziraphale pulled him close to his chest and held him there. Crowley slowly untangled himself, seeming rather confused. He was cold against Aziraphale’s fingers, and Aziraphale started anxiously rubbing him with one hand, as though he thought that might help.

“What’sss the matter?” Crowley hissed, voice slurred.

“Bert says your ambient temperature is five or maybe even ten degrees warmer,” Aziraphale told him worriedly.

Crowley let out a long hiss and shifted in Aziraphale’s arms, moving closer. “Isss that why I’m alwaysss cold?” he said slowly, sounding only moderately interested in the information.

“You should have said something,” Aziraphale chastised, while simultaneously feeling the guilt in his own stomach intensify. He should have noticed Crowley’s increased interest in warming himself in pools of sunlight and on Aziraphale’s lap.

Crowley gave a short, noncommittal hiss and nosed his head closer to Aziraphale’s chest.

“Apparently you’re supposed to have a thermal gradient with a snake,” Bert reported, still looking at the book in his hands. “Nothing too hot—it says they can burn themselves on heat lamps sometimes.”

“Well, how can we get a thermal gradient?” Aziraphale asked worriedly, still holding Crowley tight to his chest.

“Something called ‘heat tape?’” Bert relayed. “Apparently it’s made for this sort of thing.”

“Can we buy some somewhere?”

“I dunno, I’ll check,” Bert said, shifting the book into one hand as he pulled his mobile out of his pocket with the other.

Aziraphale held Crowley closer, letting him coil himself around Aziraphale’s bare forearms, iridescent scales icy against his skin. Crowley seemed delighted by all the attention, wrapping himself more firmly around Aziraphale’s arms and tucking his head up against his chest.

“Looks like there’s a pet supply shop a few Tube stops from here,” Bert reported after a moment. “I can phone them and see if they have any in stock. Sounds like you’re supposed to—er—use it with a cage, though. Or an aquarium or something.”

“You are not…putting me…in a _cage_ ,” Crowley hissed, the words drawing themselves out as Crowley struggled to articulate them.

“We’re not putting him in a cage,” Aziraphale repeated, more firmly.

“Hey, I’m just reading what it says,” Bert said. “I’ll phone them, then, shall I?”

 

~~***~~

 

It took Aziraphale and Bert almost three hours to construct what they called a ‘shelter.’

Crowley thought it looked an awful lot like a cage, except that he wouldn’t be trapped inside of it, which he supposed really didn’t make it a cage at all.

It was a large box about the size of a coffee table and made from transparent Perspex, to the top of which Bert had affixed the long plastic strips of heat tape. After a lot of consulting Bert’s mobile, struggling with a Stanley knife, and a good deal of swearing, they managed to encourage the strips of barred black tape to begin heating up.

They’d constructed the box near the back of the bookshop, not far from the counter, where they’d found enough room to build it without bumping into too many bookcases. The front panel of the box had a rather large, rectangular hole inexpertly cut into it that allowed easy access in and out. Aziraphale had even laid a towel out on the floor of the box, so Crowley could have a bit of a barrier between himself and the somewhat cold wooden floor.

Crowley thought he probably should have had a few critical comments for it, but as soon as the heat tape started warming up, he felt all concerns about its construction vanish. Wrapping himself around Aziraphale’s arms had warmed him up a little, but there was only so much warmth he could eke from the former angel.

So as soon as Aziraphale finishing laying out the towel, Bert still double-checking the wires in the heat tape, Crowley slithered right in.

The Perspex held the heat in wonderfully, and he could feel the slight increase in temperature immediately.

Crowley let out a relieved hiss and started arranging himself on the towel beneath the heat tape.

He felt something warm move near the entrance to the box, and saw that Aziraphale was on his hands and knees beside it, peering in.

“How’s that, my dear?” Aziraphale asked.

Crowley gave a pleased hiss and nodded his appreciation.

A moment passed, and Crowley registered that Aziraphale and Bert had moved away.

Crowley let his breathing slow and just soaked in the warmth.

 

~~***~~

 

“Come on, Crowley, you need to eat something, please,” Aziraphale said, nudging the scrap of shredded beef closer to him.

Crowley flicked out his tongue, smelling it. To what he was beginning to think of as his conscious mind, it smelled perfectly delightful, but his stomach churned at the prospect of eating it.

He wanted to refuse on the grounds that he’d brought back up the last three things Aziraphale had tried to feed him, but he really _was_ starving, and he didn’t know what he’d eat otherwise. He hadn’t had anything in weeks, and whatever ability that had allowed him to digest shawarma seemed to be declining along with his capacity to speak English with a serpentine tongue.

“Please,” Aziraphale said, and it was the worry in his tone that finally convinced Crowley to inch forward and try to pull the scrap of beef into his jaws. Aziraphale helped as best he could, but the moment it was sitting on his tongue Crowley knew it wouldn’t go down any better than any of the previous attempts had. He started spitting it out.

“No, Crowley, come on…” Aziraphale said worriedly, but didn’t try to stop him.

Crowley looked down miserably at the now-slightly-wet bit of shredded beef in front of him and then back up at Aziraphale. Now that he was thinking about food, he was hungrier than ever, but he couldn’t seem to stomach anything Aziraphale gave him.

“Sssorry,” Crowley forced out miserably.

Aziraphale was just as distressed; Crowley could feel it humming off him in waves. Crowley lowered his head to the ground and wished he could eat something that wouldn’t turn his stomach, for both of their sakes.

“I’ll try something else,” Aziraphale said, and reached out to pat him on the head.

Crowley felt the movement, and though the conscious part of him knew Aziraphale was only going to tap him gently on the head, he felt his instincts kick in. He jerked away automatically, recoiling.

Aziraphale’s hand froze and he quickly retracted it, but Crowley just felt worse about the entire affair.

“I’m ssssssssorry,” he hissed again, and just wanted to curl up into a ball and forget the whole thing. He was so very hungry.

“It’s okay,” Aziraphale said, and gave him a gentle caress on one of his coils instead. “I’m going to do some more reading, and then I’ll be back, all right?”

Crowley nodded and tucked his head under his coils, blocking out the light.

 

~~***~~

 

“There has to be a way to break this spell,” Aziraphale insisted aloud to himself, running a hand through his hair. “There _has_ to be. There _has to be_.”

He glared down at the book in front of him, the last of the pile he had collected. He had just reached its conclusion—and had stayed up very late to do so—but it had offered no more guidance than any of its predecessors.

Aziraphale was beginning to properly resent his books, growing really bloody tired of sitting and reading them only for them to fail him so many times. They’d failed Crowley when he’d tried to save Aziraphale, they’d failed Aziraphale when he’d tried to find a way to tell Crowley he wasn’t dead, and they were failing him again now, refusing to help him save Crowley this one last time.

Aziraphale shoved the book away from himself, towards the pile of its useless brothers.

“There _has to be a way_ ,” Aziraphale growled.

He refused to let this beat him, refused to lose Crowley after everything they’d gone through. Not when they were so unbelievably _close_. Aziraphale had been emotionally dragged through the mud for the last twenty years—and Crowley had too—and Aziraphale didn’t think he could take it any longer. He and Crowley had been run up against impossible odds and achieved the impossible over and over again, and Aziraphale felt, deep in his bones, that he _deserved_ a happy conclusion to all this. To be thwarted like this at the very last moment, and by a sigil thousands of miles away, at that, with the hopes of an actual life with Crowley so close he could practically taste it on his lips—it just _wasn’t bloody fair_.

“I will _find a way_ ,” Aziraphale swore, grinding the palms of his hands into the surface of the counter. “If I have to move Heaven and Earth to find it, I _will_. I will _make a way_.”

Aziraphale stayed there for a few moments more, letting his anger fill him, funnelling it into his oath. When he’d been trapped in Heaven, he’d given up on getting word to Crowley that he was alive, and he decided grimly that he would not give up again. Crowley needed him, now more than ever, and Aziraphale was not going to let him down. He refused to.

Aziraphale stayed there a long time, fuming and trying to think of something productive he could do, some other way forward.

He was still turning ideas over in his head and discarding them disgustedly when there was a faint swishing noise from behind him. Aziraphale cast a sharp glance over his shoulder and saw that Crowley was slithering towards him across the bookshop floor.

His anger began to fade as Crowley came to a stop a metre or so away, looking up at him, stretching his head upwards.

“You’re upssset,” Crowley hissed. It wasn’t a question.

Aziraphale shifted and realised with a trace of guilt that some of his emotion must have bled through the link between them. “Did I wake you?” Aziraphale asked. “I’m sorry.”

Crowley didn’t respond, but he did slither a little closer and look up expectantly. Aziraphale let out a long sigh and stood up. He cast the worthless books on the counter one last bitter look and then sighed again, letting go of his anger.

He reached down and picked Crowley up gently. “It’s nothing,” he said.

Crowley shifted in his hands, wrapping his tail around Aziraphale’s forearm for support. “Don’t worry about me,” Crowley hissed, each word sounding specially chosen. “I’m not going anywhere. Not ever.”

Aziraphale felt his mouth twist in worry.

“I promissse,” Crowley added, pressing the top of his head against Aziraphale’s arm reassuringly.

Aziraphale ran a finger lightly down Crowley’s side, the serpent’s scales smooth and slightly cool beneath his touch. He considered putting Crowley back in his shelter for the night, but decided that he could go back himself if he wanted to. So instead Aziraphale walked into the back room and sat down on the sofa. He put his feet up and leaned back, keeping Crowley in his lap. Crowley arranged himself into a more comfortable position, nudging at one of his hands. Aziraphale began stroking him gently under his chin.

Despite himself, Aziraphale began growing tired, and Crowley started to doze off as well. After a time, Aziraphale gave up and swivelled on the sofa, swinging his feet up onto the cushions and stretching out along its length. Crowley shifted sluggishly but soon repositioned himself, sprawled over Aziraphale’s stomach and chest, a reassuring weight but not so heavy that he obstructed Aziraphale’s breathing. Aziraphale switched to gently stroking Crowley’s neck, hand gradually slowing until he forgot to raise it again, and slipped asleep.

For the first time in weeks, Aziraphale’s dreams remained peaceful.

 

~~***~~

 

Two days later, Aziraphale brought Crowley a mouse.

It was a small mouse, pre-killed and frozen and then dutifully thawed, and it smelled like flesh and fur and dried blood.

Crowley had never been more disgusted in his entire life.

“You can’t—can’t exxxpect me to _eat_ that,” Crowley protested. His voice kept slipping into hisses, and it took him several tries to get the entire sentence out.

“You’re starving,” Aziraphale stated, the distress clear in his voice. “If you can’t eat human food, then you have to eat snake food.”

 _It’s a mouse, Aziraphale_ , Crowley tried to say, but it only came out as an anxious hiss. “No,” he finally managed.

The truth was, the mouse smelled delicious, and for all the same reasons it simultaneously revolted the part of Crowley that still thought of himself as an angel. He could smell the congested blood in its vessels and the faint smell of fear still clinging to it, and if he let his mind wander he could almost hear the sound of its tiny heart still beating, pumping its blood through its veins, so full of movement and life—

But Crowley knew those were the instincts of a snake, and of a predator and an animal, and he was not so far gone that he couldn’t tell the difference.

“ _No_ ,” Crowley hissed again, and forced his head away. In his mind’s eye, he was seeing the mouse that had come up to him in Eden, wild and unafraid, as it sat on his knee and looked up at him with nothing but innocent curiosity. Crowley had given it a gentle touch on the nose, then, and no ounce of him had wished it harm. That was the part of him, Crowley knew, that was still fundamentally _himself_ , and that was the part he had to listen to now.

Aziraphale was still holding the mouse out to him, reaching into the Perspex box with what looked like a pair of regular kitchen tongs.

“Try moving it,” Bert’s voice suggested from behind Aziraphale.

Aziraphale moved the tongs so that the dead mouse bounced gently up and down in a morbid mockery of life.

The movement registered in Crowley’s failing vision, and the combination of it, the intoxicating smell, and the intense pain in his stomach almost got the better of him.

Then he forced his head even further away, coiling himself up and sticking his head deep within the pocket of himself he had created, where he couldn’t do any harm. He tried to calm his racing heart, but his blood was rushing through him, and he was _so hungry_.

“I don’t think he’s going to eat it,” Aziraphale said, voice tired and worried.

“You could try touching him on the nose with it,” Bert suggested. “The book said that might work. Or leave it in his coils.”

Crowley wrapped himself more tightly, terrified at the prospect.

Aziraphale sighed again. “It’s already dead, Crowley,” he said, as though he thought Crowley cared about the distinction. “You don’t have to kill it or anything. Just swallow it.”

Crowley buried his head deeper in his own coils. He would sooner starve, or eat his own tail, than resort to something so humiliating, disgusting, and animalistic. Why couldn’t Aziraphale understand that?

He heard Aziraphale sigh again, and then the smell of the mouse slowly faded. “We’ll try again later, I suppose,” he said, and there were a few more noises and Crowley got the impression that Bert had left.

“Look, Crowley, I’m sorry,” Aziraphale said, and his voice was heavy with guilt and worry. “We just don’t want you to starve, is all.”

Crowley didn’t move or respond, and Aziraphale let out another long breath and then even his presence faded.


	18. A Memory of Midfarthing

The days ticked by, one after another, and Aziraphale felt his anxiety grow as he watched the same nightmare that had plagued him for seven years play out again, except faster and with their places reversed.

Crowley seemed to regress further each day, words turning increasingly to hisses as his attention span shortened, his memories started fading, and his higher thought processes began to break down.

Aziraphale knew this because he sought Crowley out every morning, sat down next to the Perspex box, and talked with him. He still thought of it as talking _with_ Crowley even though it increasingly felt like talking _to_ Crowley, because Aziraphale had spent the last year talking _to_ Crowley, and this was different.

The serpent in his lap or sitting in the Perspex box next to him was still _Crowley_ , and he still responded to what Aziraphale was saying, just not always in words.

Aziraphale had often wondered, as he slowly lost pieces of himself, how it must have felt to be in Crowley’s position, and he knew now that, if their situations were at all analogous, Crowley must have been utterly terrified.

Crowley hadn’t eaten anything in nearly a month now, and Aziraphale knew he was starving because _Aziraphale_ was hungry all the time. After a few days of eating too many pastries and chips without any effect on the pang in his stomach, he’d deduced worriedly that it must be a sensation he was picking up from Crowley.

Bert gave tempting Crowley with the mouse another go, but Crowley realised what he was doing and immediately backed himself into the furthest corner of his Perspex box and rammed his head into the corner. Given that Bert was presently blocking the only exit from the box, this effectively transformed it into a true cage, and they agreed after a few moments of watching Crowley grind his head into the corner of the box and hiss wretchedly that they didn’t want Crowley to be trapped like that. Indeed, as soon as they backed off, Crowley slithered out of the box and hid himself among the bookshelves for several hours.

Aziraphale had a brief moment of hope when Anathema called him back, but after a brief discussion of the problem she admitted that her knowledge of magic didn’t extend to these sorts of things. She and Newt had also looked through the _Further Nice and Accurate Prophecies_ , but hadn’t found anything relating to serpents or spells to turn them back. Aziraphale thanked her, but it was disheartening nonetheless.

Bert carried out additional research on snake behaviour while Aziraphale worked his way one last time through the books on sigils. And, rather to Aziraphale’s dismay, they were beginning to see some proper snake body language appear in Crowley’s mannerisms.

Gone were the oddly human quirks like tilting his head when he was confused or nudging Aziraphale’s shoulder or hand when he had something he wanted to tell him. Instead, he began exhibiting what Bert explained were fear-based responses to anything that he didn’t recognise.

This was the instinct that caused Crowley to recoil whenever Aziraphale reached towards him from above; given that birds were the natural predator of snakes, it was hardwired into Crowley’s new form that anything warm coming swiftly from the sky probably wanted to eat him.

There were also moments when it was clear he didn’t recognise either of them, his entire body tense as his head followed their movements, breaths huffing so heavily they could see his flanks heaving. Much to Aziraphale’s relief, he usually worked out who Aziraphale was after a few moments, and Bert a little while after that. Aziraphale’s presence seemed to be particularly reassuring, because he usually calmed after a few minutes with Aziraphale nearby, even if he’d spent the last twenty minutes hissing at Bert.

Luckily, though Crowley spent plenty of time hissing at both of them, he never seemed inclined to bite either of them. Bert had read up on this fairly extensively; given that Crowley had said he was very venomous, Bert wasn’t feeling up to risking life or limb. Not all snakes had tells you could look for before they bit, but the most profound sign of aggression was what _Basic Guide to Snake Care_ described as an ‘S’ curve, with the snake rearing up completely before striking. Crowley hadn’t shown any inclination to do this so far, but all the same Bert and Aziraphale did their best to not antagonise him. Aziraphale found that if he just talked calmingly to Crowley for a few minutes, he would seem to realise what was going on, and a few moments later would hiss out what Aziraphale was certain was an apology.

As the days rolled by, it was clear that sometimes Crowley understood exactly what was happening to him, and that it frightened the hell out of him. One morning, Aziraphale came downstairs to find Crowley waiting for him on the counter, and as soon as Aziraphale picked him up Crowley began winding himself around Aziraphale, looping himself loosely around his neck and hissing brokenly. Aziraphale had learned to read Crowley’s hisses as attempts at speech and not always signs of aggression, and though he couldn’t translate the exact phrases, the message was clear enough.

Aziraphale thought he felt Crowley’s fear, sometimes, a deep and gripping panic in those increasingly rare moments he seemed to realise what was happening, and the only way Aziraphale could differentiate it from his own was the fact that Crowley’s fear came quickly and ebbed away fifteen or so minutes later, while Aziraphale’s own worry dogged him chronically.

Early one morning a few days later, as Aziraphale woke groggily from his usual nightmare and headed downstairs, he all but ran into Bert, standing near one of the bookcases and speaking quietly into his mobile.

Aziraphale didn’t meant to eavesdrop, but he had already overheard too much when he realised this was a rather private conversation.

“—yes, of course I’ll be back,” Bert was saying. “Look, Crowley’s in a spot of trouble and I’m just helping him out—yes, he knows we’re getting married.” Bert sighed, and Aziraphale paused with one foot hovering over the bottom step of the stairwell, guiltily wondering if he ought to go back upstairs and find something to busy himself with for another five minutes.

“I’ll be back as soon as I can,” Bert’s voice continued. “I know, I’m sorry I couldn’t make the 27th—could we push it back to August? Yes, I know everything’s already booked…Donnie, no, I’ll take care of all of it. I’m sorry.” Bert sighed again. “I love you too. I’ll talk soon. Yes, really.”

There was the sound of approaching footsteps, and Aziraphale realised belatedly that Bert was coming in his direction. Before he could move, Bert appeared at the foot of the stairwell, looking stressed and ungroomed.

“Ah,” Bert said, coming to a nervous stop as he saw Aziraphale standing there. He hastily averted his gaze. “Er, you didn’t hear that—”

“You should go back,” Aziraphale said, deciding there was no point in pretending he hadn’t overheard. “Go and get married. Really; we’ve kept you far too long. I can take care of Crowley.”

Bert let out a long breath, the sound rattling. “That’s not all of it,” he admitted heavily. “God, I wish that was all of it.”

Aziraphale finished making his way down the stairs. “What’s the rest?”

Bert exhaled again and gestured tiredly for Aziraphale to walk with him. They stepped out of the bookshop, wound around the parked Bentley, and walked across the street through a light drizzle, moving towards the chocolate and coffee shop that had replaced the adult bookshop of twenty years previous.

“My wife,” Bert said a few minutes later as they left the coffee shop and came to a halt just outside, under the protection of the awning. “My first wife, that is. Ann.” He glanced down the drizzling street and then at his newly-procured cup of coffee, swirling its contents around slightly. “We really… _God,_ I really loved her. Got married early, probably too early, but it was worth it.” Bert let out a long breath, staring into the depths of his insulated cup. “She was perfect: beautiful, kind, and with the brightest smile you’ve ever seen. Loved watercolouring, and thought my beard was funny…I had a proper beard back in those days…” He trailed off, and Aziraphale noticed a line of wetness down his cheek that he didn’t think was from the rain.

Bert looked over at Aziraphale. “She died thirty years ago, in childbirth. They—they lost the child too. A girl.” He sniffed and looked back down at his coffee. “My beautiful daughter. _Our_ daughter. And now…I thought I had finally managed to move on, and to accept that I could maybe care about someone else again…and then…then you tell me that God is real, and Heaven is real, and Ann—she was so good. Kinder than I’ll ever be. She’d be in Heaven; I just know it. And our daughter—I don’t know how God counts these things, but she might be there too. So how can I possibly marry Donnie now? If Ann is waiting for me?”

“Oh,” Aziraphale said. He didn’t know what to say, what he ought to say—Bert was right.

“And I—I _thought_ ,” Bert said, sounding a little on the verge of tears again. “I thought I wanted to marry Donnie, and I think I still do—but maybe I’m just getting old and lonely. I thought I had it all sorted, at long last, but now I don’t know what to think anymore.” He looked miserably down at his coffee.

“From what I know of Heaven,” Aziraphale said after a long moment, “I think Ann would understand. She knows you still love her, and she would want you to be happy while you’re still alive.”

Bert nodded miserably. “That’s what I’ve been telling myself, but…” He shrugged.

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale told him, in case it would help.

Bert drew a deep breath and seemed to collect himself. “It’s not your fault,” he said, sounding very tired. “Thanks for listening to an old man ramble, though.”

“You’re not old,” Aziraphale said.

Bert laughed a little at that. “My troubles must seem insignificant in the grand scheme of the cosmos, I suppose?”

“Not at all,” Aziraphale told him honestly.

Bert cleared his throat awkwardly.

“You really are free to go whenever,” Aziraphale said. “Don’t let us keep you.”

Bert shook his head. “Crowley _is_ in a spot of trouble, and you might need the extra pair of hands. Besides, neither Donnie or I are exactly spring chickens. No need to hurry, right?”

“Only if you’re sure,” Aziraphale cautioned.

Bert sniffled one last time and took a bracing sip of his coffee. “Of course,” he said, stepping off the pavement to cross the street. “Anything for my old pal Ambrose!”

 

~~***~~

 

Snakes do not have eyelids, but they do have tear ducts. A transparent scale covering each eye prevents any tears from escaping; instead, they are drained into the roof of the mouth. This means that, although technically snakes can shed tears, Crowley had found himself in the position for the second time where he had a great need to grieve but couldn’t cry.

He was feeling himself drifting away, losing track of things he knew were vital and important to him. His mind was growing increasingly hazy and heavy, and he simply could not seem to keep thoughts with more than two or three distinct components in his mind anymore.

The world had faded around him too, softening into a blur of colours and shapes. Sounds had dimmed as well, Aziraphale and Bert’s words slipping together into meaningless jumbles of sound. His sense of smell had sharpened to compensate, to such an extent that he was now mapping his surroundings by taste rather than sight.

He thought Aziraphale had said something to him a few days ago of especial import, but he couldn’t recall what it was, the memory fading from his mind like dew beneath the sun. Quite a few of his memories were slipping from his mind in this same fashion, relieving him of their burden.

His hunger was becoming physically painful, sometimes accompanied by tremors, and he felt himself growing weaker as a result of his prolonged fast. Aziraphale tried feeding him human food again, but no matter how much Crowley wanted to eat it, he always ended up either spitting the pieces back up or spending the rest of the day in a haze of digestive pain. He tried to make up for it by making sure he drank a lot, but the water couldn’t completely take the edge off his hunger.

When he was lucid enough to seek out Aziraphale, he always found him hunched over some book, recognising him as much by smell as by the perennial feeling of worry rolling off him. Crowley didn’t like that Aziraphale felt worried and would try to reassure him by doing the only thing he could: curling up in his lap.

Occasionally, Crowley would have a few moments where he thought more clearly than all the others, and in those moments he knew that he was losing himself. And, worse yet, he knew that his gradual decline was slowly killing Aziraphale as surely as Aziraphale’s own had him. Crowley hated the idea of Aziraphale suffering through this as he had, hated the very _thought_ , but he seemed completely and utterly powerless to stop the process, sliding further and further into the recesses of his own mind each day.

But when he could, he wrapped himself around Aziraphale and told him everything was going to be okay. Aziraphale’s fear was so palpable to him, permeating the very air, so Crowley just wrapped himself tighter and told Aziraphale that he wasn’t going to leave him. He thought most of it just came across as hissing, but he hoped the message might have got through.

 

~~***~~

 

A few days later, as Aziraphale sat staring down at the piece of paper with all of his potential leads for breaking the sigil or shifting Crowley back written on it—each one crossed out—he felt a well of hopelessness rise within him. He’d tried everything he could think of to save Crowley, and he knew he was truly experiencing what Crowley must have felt when Aziraphale was dying.

It was terrifying.

He didn’t know how Crowley had done it. Aziraphale had been scared too, of course, scared of dying, but he’d known his fate was the less pitiful. He had been dying as a result of actions that had caused Crowley to be saved, and that was as good a cause to die for as any Aziraphale could imagine. And, when it was over, that would be it for him. No more Crowley, but no more Aziraphale to miss him either.

Crowley, on the other hand…Crowley had to live. He would have said that Crowley _got_ to live, but it had been clear even when Aziraphale was alive that Crowley would not see his continued existence as fortunate.

And now Aziraphale was in his place. Now _Crowley_ was the one slipping inexorably away from _him_ , and Aziraphale would be the one left alive in the end. He had eaten from the Tree of Life; he was properly, _truly_ immortal. Crowley would die, if not when he lost himself then when his serpentine body exhausted itself, and then Aziraphale would be alone. For what would truly be eternity.

It chilled him to the core.

He remembered asking Crowley to promise not to try and save him. Crowley had broken that oath, twice, but Aziraphale knew now that, if Crowley asked the same of him today, it would not be a promise Aziraphale could make. When he had joined Crowley in his corporation, he had, however briefly, felt he understood Crowley at a fundamental level, and he knew that Crowley had felt the same when Aziraphale was dying as Aziraphale did now. How could he possibly have blamed Crowley for breaking his promise and doing everything he could to save him, including seeking out the highest power he knew of, that held by Adam—

Aziraphale’s head snapped up.

The sigil around the Tree of Life had been built to be completely watertight and impervious to meddling, with no flaws that could be exploited. But there was a way to break every spell, and that was by providing more power than the original caster. The sigil held the power equivalent of two seraphim, and there were no more powerful angels, but maybe _there were more powerful people outside of the angels_. Like the Antichrist, created to destroy the world.

Aziraphale scrambled for Crowley’s mobile, finding it after some hasty book-shoving half-hidden under a sheet of paper on the corner of the counter.

Aziraphale navigated to the contacts page, finger hovering above the name ‘Adam Young.’

Aziraphale pressed call.

The mobile rang, and halfway through the second ring it picked up.

“Hello?” asked the voice of the Antichrist.

“Adam,” Aziraphale said, letting out a relieved breath. “It’s Aziraphale.”

“Oh!” Adam sounded a little cheered. “Hullo! Back on Earth, then?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale said, torn between whether he should thank Adam first, as he’d been meaning to for a while, or ask him for help. He opted for the former. “I know you were the one who told Crowley I was in Heaven—and I just really, _really_ wanted to thank you—”

“Aw, don’t worry about it,” Adam said. “Honestly, I sort of thought he knew all along. Really should have noticed earlier. My mistake.”

Aziraphale spent a moment in silence, mouth working in disbelief, but Adam seemed unperturbed.

“Besides,” he said brightly, “all’s well that ends well, right?”

“About that,” Aziraphale said, mouth dry. “There’s another reason I phoned you.”

“What’s that?”

Aziraphale saw no point in beating around the bush. “Can you break a spell powered by a seraph and seven archangels?”

There was a long pause. “What _have_ you two got yourselves into this time?”

“There was warding,” Aziraphale explained, “around the Tree of Life in Eden. Crowley stepped into the sigil to get the fruit to make me immortal, and he ended up shifting into a snake. The problem is, he can’t recharge his powers and without his powers he can’t shift back, and he’s slowly…losing himself and turning into a snake. Properly, I mean.” Aziraphale trailed off nervously.

There was a pause.

“Blimey, you two get around, don’t you?” Adam said.

“Can you break the sigil?” Aziraphale asked again. “We’ve tried everything. I think the only way may be directly overwhelming it, but you’re the only one I can think of that could best two seraphim’s worth of power.”

Adam made a noncommittal noise.

“Er,” Aziraphale said. “Can you?”

“Not _two_ seraphim,” Adam said apologetically. “I’m sorry. From what I know of my powers, I could easily best one seraph, but two…I don’t think so.”

Aziraphale felt his hopes fall apart as quickly as they had come together. “Are you sure? How much do you think you’re short? We could try to find some other angels who might help us—”

“You’d need several archangels,” Adam said. “Four at least, maybe five…”

Aziraphale looked down at the counter, feeling almost on the verge of tears.

“Sorry I can’t be of much help,” Adam said mildly. “You could try going up another notch, though.”

“Another notch?” Aziraphale echoed.

“Yeah,” Adam said. “I can’t best two seraphim, but God could.”

“…God,” Aziraphale repeated.

“Yes,” Adam confirmed agreeably. “He can be a bit hard to get ahold of, but He might be willing to help.”

Aziraphale mumbled something affirmative, but his mind was shifting gears. No one had seen God in millennia, and he severely doubted that was about to change anytime soon, but if it was just God’s _power_ they needed…

“Thank you,” Aziraphale said, a little breathless, mind already shuffling through items that he knew God had imbued with His power, and feeling something like hope for the first time in weeks, eager to get started. He had found a way to save Crowley after all. “ _Really_ ,” Aziraphale said again, stronger. “ _Thank you_.”

“Er, sure,” Adam said, sounding a little perplexed. “But I haven’t—”

Aziraphale hung up and went to tell Crowley and Bert the good news.

 

~~***~~

 

“We have a couple of options,” Aziraphale said a few hours later, flattening a fresh sheet of paper out onto the counter. Aziraphale had deposited Crowley nearby on the counter for just this occasion, and Bert was sitting opposite him, but it was fairly evident the barman would be the only one listening.

“These are all of the objects I could come up with on short notice that God touched Himself,” he announced, “as well as where I think they’re currently being held. Any one of them would do, so we just need to pick which one we want and then get it.”

“Seems easy enough,” Bert said.

Aziraphale gave him a tight smile and turned to the list. “Number one,” he said. “The Staff of Moses.”

“As in…parting-the-Red-Sea Staff of Moses?” Bert asked.

“The very same.”

Crowley started poking around a nearby pile of books, evidently completely uninterested in their discussion.

“And where’s that?” Bert asked.

“Heaven,” Aziraphale replied. “I’m very certain of that. It would be heavily guarded, though. Most of the things on this list I’m fairly sure Heaven has under lock and key; I don’t know much about what Hell has.” He cast Crowley a look, but, if Crowley had ever known, he wasn’t about to be filling them in anytime soon.

“Okay, what else is there?” Bert asked.

Aziraphale turned back to his list. “Number two is the Ark of the Covenant, which houses the Ten Commandments and the Rod of Aaron. The Ark itself was made by angels, but the Rod or the Ten Commandments would have been made by God.”

“The Ark of the Covenant,” Bert repeated. “Not only is God real, but now I’m in an actual _Indiana Jones_ film?”

Aziraphale blinked at him. “A what?”

Bert sighed. “Never mind.”

Aziraphale returned to his list. “There’s the Seal of Solomon, but I have no idea where that is—Heaven might have it, or I wouldn’t put it past Hell to have nicked it; it traps demons, you know.”

“Hell collects God relics?”

“For insurance, mostly,” Aziraphale said with a shrug. He was nearing the bottom of his list. “Then there are the longshots: salt from the pillar He turned Edith—that’s Lot’s wife—into might do the trick, or something from the plagues of Egypt…but I imagine most of that’s long lost.”

“…That’s it?” Bert asked when Aziraphale didn’t continue. “The Ark of the bloody Covenant, Moses’s staff, and some salt? And Heaven has all of those under lock and key?”

“I think so,” Aziraphale said nervously.

“What about that sword?” Bert asked. “The one Crowley said was the key to Eden?”

“Made by angels, not God,” Aziraphale dismissed.

“And God didn’t…I don’t know…make a holy memo or something that we could get our hands on?”

“It needs to be _imbued_ with His power, not just made by His hand,” Aziraphale said. “That’s why I don’t even know if something like the pillar of salt would work. It was an act of destruction, not of Creation.”

“So you’re going to…break into Heaven?” Bert asked.

Aziraphale looked down at his list. He had just broken _out_ of Heaven, and did not particularly want to go back anytime soon. He wasn’t sure how he’d get there in the first place, though now that he had a physical form maybe Kazariel would be willing to fly him up there. Or maybe… “Potentially,” he said. “Kazariel used to be a guard in Heaven; I’ll phone her and see if she can help us.”

Bert nodded as Aziraphale located her name in Crowley’s mobile—Aziraphale had transferred it there from the slip of paper some time ago—and hit call.

The mobile rang. And rang. And rang. It went to voicemail, and Aziraphale left a message asking her to call them back urgently.

“I’ll try again later,” Aziraphale said, setting the mobile down. Crowley slithered over and flicked out a tongue curiously. Aziraphale sighed and scratched him under the chin. “If Kazariel knows where one of these is…and if we can convince her to steal it _for_ us…she’s helped us out before.” Aziraphale allowed himself a small smile. “That might be all there is to it.”

Bert looked surprised. “Really? No complicated, last-minute hold up?”

“I don’t think so,” Aziraphale said. “I can look up the sigil we’d need to use, but there’s a standard minor one for reversals—it just removes all spells on an individual—and I don’t imagine this one would need anything more complicated. Then it’s just a matter of putting the object in one sigil, Crowley in another, and saying the words. It’s very straightforward, really.”

“That’s great news!” Bert said, brightening considerably. “So you think that’ll turn Crowley back? Into a person, I mean?”

Aziraphale looked down at Crowley, who was still begging to be scratched. “I don’t know,” he said. “I hope so. It’ll allow his powers to recharge, certainly…but if he can’t _remember_ how to turn back…”

“Oh,” Bert said. “Couldn’t we use one of those transformation spells we were trying earlier, then?”

“Potentially,” Aziraphale agreed. “We’d need Kazariel to perform it, but…yes.” Aziraphale allowed himself a strained smile. There were a lot of things still uncertain, not least of all that he didn’t know if Crowley would bounce back once he’d been returned to human form, but it seemed like they might have a genuine chance now. And, for the first time in weeks, Aziraphale saw a clear path forward. “Yes, I think it just might work.”


	19. Instinct

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the chapter with the M rating. It’s hard to say exactly what it’s tagged for, but it’s not sex, swearing, or violence, per se. But if you’re squeamish or exceptionally fond of small, fluffy animals, I’d consider myself forewarned.

Aziraphale phoned Kazariel four more times over the next two days, and left a message each time, but she never returned his call.

This boded very poorly, and though it was possible Kazariel was just busy or no longer had her mobile on her, or perhaps that she was somewhere without signal, it meant that the one chance they had of turning Crowley back was growing slimmer by the day.

And Crowley was doing even worse, both in terms of recognising the two of them and in terms of health. He still refused to eat anything he was presented with, and in the moments when Aziraphale felt almost faint with hunger he knew Crowley really wasn’t doing well at all.

Bert had found a recipe online for a sort of scrambled egg mix that some snakes would apparently drink, but though they had made some up and stuck it in Crowley’s box, he hadn’t touched it.

Aziraphale also noticed with mounting alarm that Crowley’s shows of affection towards him were beginning to get fewer and farther between. Once, when he slithered by and Aziraphale scooped him up, Crowley hissed and thrashed around so fiercely, struggling to wrench himself from Aziraphale’s arms, that Aziraphale almost dropped him and feared Crowley might hurt himself.

Since Kazariel was proving unreachable, Aziraphale turned to the far more dangerous prospect of returning to Heaven himself. He quickly ran up against a wall, though; even if he knew where one of the artefacts might be located, he had no way to get there. Flight was the only way to reach Heaven, a constraint that was meant to restrict access. The opposite was true of Hell, where few people would venture voluntarily but many would seek to leave; portals to Hell were laughably easy to make.

Which meant that, in his current state, Aziraphale had better access to Hell than Heaven. He considered the possibility of going into Hell to try to find something, but he had neither any idea if Hell had any relics he could use, nor where to find them. He hadn’t curated a great deal of books on the subject, because he honestly hadn’t been terribly interested in diabolical treasure hoards, and he’d always had Crowley to ask if there was something he’d wanted to know.

All the same, Aziraphale decided there was no sense in not exploring the option and began combing through his books for any mention of artefacts or relics Hell might have got their hands on, and where they might keep them.

Aziraphale had just finished stacking up all of the hellish books he owned—many of which growled at him and started emitting unpleasant odours—when he heard Bert swear very loudly.

Aziraphale set the last book on the top of the pile and turned towards the noise, alarmed. “Bert?” he called. “Are you all right?”

“Ow, ow, bloody hell,” Bert swore loudly, and Aziraphale hurried towards the sound of his voice—near Crowley’s Perspex box.

Bert met him halfway, holding one of his hands in the other.

“What happened?” Aziraphale demanded.

“He _bit me_ ,” Bert said, holding out his hand so Aziraphale could see the twin puncture marks, already smeared with blood. “I was just going to dump out that egg stuff—I even told him what I was doing—”

Aziraphale looked past Bert at where Crowley was coiled up in his box, hissing in their direction. Aziraphale was torn between making sure Bert was all right and going to see if Crowley was.

“He said he was venomous,” Bert said, sounding somewhat panicked. “Really venomous.”

Deciding Crowley probably needed some time to himself anyway, Aziraphale turned back to Bert, taking his hand and inspecting it carefully.

“What are you supposed to do for a snakebite?” Bert asked anxiously. “Should I go to hospital? Or call an emergency helpline or something?”

“Do you feel anything?” Aziraphale asked, watching as the skin around the bite began to raise and redden.

“I feel like he bit me,” Bert said.

“No, I mean like are you nauseous, lightheaded, anything like that?” Aziraphale asked, letting go of his hand.

Bert was silent for a moment, still breathing fast. Then he deflated a little, some of his panic evaporating. “Er, I don’t think so,” he said.

“Do you want to go to hospital?” Aziraphale asked him.

Bert looked down at his hand and flexed his fingers. “I mean, I suppose it doesn’t hurt all that much,” he admitted. “He _did_ say he was venomous, though.”

“I know,” Aziraphale said, thinking that Crowley _had_ sounded like he was trying to impress Bert at the time. “I think he was joking,” Aziraphale said.

Bert blinked at him. “ _Joking?_ ”

Aziraphale shrugged. “He used to be a demon. He’s prone to exaggeration when it suits him.”

Bert made a little noise of disbelief but looked down at his hand all the same. “Well, I suppose if I don’t get any symptoms I’m okay then.” He nodded. “I’m going to go look up snake bite symptoms, just in case.”

He moved past Aziraphale as the former angel started towards Crowley’s Perspex box. Crowley hissed at him as he approached, so Aziraphale stayed a metre or so away, dropping into a squat but making no attempt to move closer.

“Are you okay, my dear?” he asked, keeping his voice kind and unthreatening.

Crowley hissed at him, and Aziraphale told himself it wasn’t personal, but he still felt something twist worriedly inside of him.

“We’re not going to hurt you,” Aziraphale told him. “We’re trying to help you, my dear.”

Crowley didn’t move, but he didn’t hiss either. His flanks were still rising and falling rapidly and Aziraphale could see he was holding himself very tense. His head was half-reared back, but not in the full, aggressive ‘S’ position.

Aziraphale gave him a brief, strained smile, straightened up, and walked back over to the counter. Bert was leaning against its far side, scrolling through something on his mobile.

“Some symptoms might appear after an hour or two,” the barman reported. He glanced at the back of his hand. “But I seem to not be dying right now, so that’s something.”

“I’m sorry about that,” Aziraphale said heavily, sinking onto his stool.

“Nah, it’s not your fault,” Bert said, poking experimentally at the bite. “I must have spooked him, that’s all.”

Aziraphale put his elbows on the counter and massaged the bridge of his nose with two fingers. “Oh, Bert, how did it come to this?”

Bert looked over at him. “You’re asking the wrong person, mate.”

Aziraphale’s mouth twisted and he let out a long sigh, dropping his hand back to the surface of the counter. He picked up the top book from the pile and opened it. It growled at him.

“Same to you,” Aziraphale muttered, and turned the page.

 

~~***~~

 

Crowley was watching the two large ones.

They were huddled around the long rectangular rock, where they were prone to sitting for hours at a time and barely moving. They made faint noises sometimes but largely appeared to be doing something with the tree-objects that smelled like dust and soot and pressed wood.

There were more of the tree-objects in front of Crowley now, shielding him from the view of the large ones. He was hiding cleverly behind them, keeping to the safety of the shadows. He’d been watching the two large ones for some time now. He was extremely hungry, and the need was beginning to consume him. Unfortunately, it seemed the large ones were too big to eat. He had considered it.

They also did not appear to be interested in eating him, though, which was good news. The first of the pair was vaguely familiar, and smelled like sweat and wax and something sharp and tangy. He had tried to attack Crowley the previous day, but Crowley had struck him and scared him off.

The second one was his angel. Crowley did not know how he knew this, but it was a fixed, inalienable fact in his mind and he accepted it as such. Interestingly, the presence of his angel always gave him pause, even when he was nearly blind with hunger. He never smelled like fear, for one thing. For another, there was some part of Crowley that always leapt at his proximity, as though in recognition. He smelled of the tree-objects’ dust and strong leaves and fibres, and though none of those were good for eating he found himself drawn to their scent. Sometimes he knew more about his angel—at times he could almost grasp at a more complete name, and occasionally he even wanted to curl up on him and just drink in his scent. It frightened Crowley, but though he didn’t know what the sharp-smelling large one wanted, he knew that his angel didn’t mean him any harm.

Crowley stayed in his spot behind the tree-objects for a while longer before he tired of watching the large ones. He carefully made his way off of the shelf-tree and to the ground.

One of the large ones made a movement but Crowley ignored them and slithered back to his warm box. Heat radiated from the roof of the strange box in a manner he felt certain was unnatural, but Crowley was content to accept this second sun. He curled up beneath it and soaked in its warmth.

After some indeterminable period of time, Crowley felt the warmth of something else approaching, along with the smell of the tree-objects’ dust, and he knew his angel had come to see him.

He was feeling a little more clear-headed just now, so he hissed a greeting. He didn’t know why he did it; hisses weren’t for greetings. But it just seemed like the right thing to do.

Crowley flicked out his tongue and felt every inch of himself contract when he picked up the intoxicating scent of a small living thing.

His angel made a worried-sounding noise and a moment later a mouse entered Crowley’s box. The large ones had tried giving him mice before, and Crowley had refused them. But, just now, he couldn’t quite remember why. Every inch of him was weak with hunger, and he felt his survival and predator instincts come awake.

He was a serpent—he was The Serpent, fearsome predator. The large one had done something different to the mouse this time—it was warmer, and he could smell fresh blood. His heart doubled its pace as his tongue flicked out again, sucking in the tantalising smell. There was a primitive, irresistible urge deep in his gut, written into his very being and demanding to be heeded.

The mouse started inching across the ground and Crowley coiled himself to spring, head tracking the creature’s movements. Every inch of him was throbbing with desire, and he could feel his blood rushing through his veins as he prepared to take a life. He hadn’t killed in _so very long_ …

The mouse jerked towards him and Crowley couldn’t stand it a moment longer, the pounding of his heart too loud to ignore. His head flashed forward, sinking his fangs deeply into his prey as he whipped his body around it, holding it tight. His coils constricted, tighter and _tighter_ , and he distantly registered the large one moving a little further away.

Crowley locked himself around the mouse as tightly as he could, until he was certain he had squeezed all life out of it. His fangs were still buried in its flesh, and the feeling was unbelievable. The intoxicating taste of blood was in his mouth and the scent filling his nose, the fur of the mouse brushing against the sides of his jaws. Crowley worked his mouth further open and began to swallow, throat constricting and drawing the mouse slowly in.

He was over halfway through the process when the taste of blood in his mouth abruptly soured. All at once he was revolted by what he was doing; the warmth of the creature in his mouth was disgusting, as was the soft feeling of its fur on the inside of his mouth and the fact that he could still see its tail in his field of vision.

Every inch of Crowley tried to gag at once, and he felt himself convulse, torn between his conscious mind’s command and the searing hunger in his stomach. The large one—his angel, he noted vaguely—was saying something to him, but Crowley tuned him out, struggling to reject the dead creature already halfway down his throat.

His mind was reanimating the unfortunate mouse, and it was sitting on his knee, looking up at him among the beauty of Eden, and he was just trying to save Aziraphale—

Crowley tried to spit the mouse out, shaking with the effort, but it was too far down and as much as he tried to force it out, his throat just kept constricting, pulling it further in.

 _No_ , Crowley thought, his first coherent thought in days, _no, please_ —

His throat convulsed and, to his horror, the mouse slid the rest of the way in. Crowley shivered, disgust and repulsion gripping every inch of him. He could feel it still, slowly working its way down his neck, and he couldn’t even close his mouth the whole way. He sucked in a panicked breath, feeling considerably more aware of his surroundings than he had in days.

He became aware of his angel again, saying something to him. Crowley recognised the noise as words, but couldn’t piece together what was being said. He detected a mix of worried relief and guilt.

Crowley could still smell the blood, and it was beginning to taste good again. He shuddered with disgust, feeling that he had been soiled and used in some unforgivable manner, the pressure of the mouse in his throat still very palpable.

He recognised that his angel had betrayed him, and the pang in his chest hurt more than he thought it should have. _I said I didn’t want to eat mice_ , he thought disjointedly, fear and anger coursing through him. _I told him—_

Crowley’s thought fragmented from there, and he felt a rush of satisfaction roll over him as he felt the mouse move a little further down his throat. It just felt so _good_.

Crowley moved as far away as he could from the angel who had betrayed him and forced him to feel this disgusting, unwanted pleasure. He curled himself into a ball, shoved his head into his coils, and wished with his last moment of lucidity that his angel would just go away.

 

~~***~~

 

“He ate that one,” Aziraphale said heavily, sinking onto his stool at the counter.

Bert looked up at him. “What? Really? That’s great!”

Aziraphale tossed the tongs onto the counter and rubbed worriedly at his face. He felt dirty. “Is it?” he asked bitterly.

Bert looked taken aback. “Well, he’s got to eat something, doesn’t he? It’s been almost—what? Five weeks?”

“Closer to six,” Aziraphale said wretchedly. “But—oh, you should have seen him, Bert. He did _not_ want to eat it.”

“But…he did?” Bert asked, sounding confused.

“I think it was instinct,” Aziraphale said miserably, rubbing at his cheek again. “He couldn’t control it. But then, as he was swallowing it…” He shivered, stomach churning.

Bert made an apologetic sound.

“We need to get him turned back as soon as possible,” Aziraphale said. “This week, if we can. If we can’t get ahold of Kazariel soon, I’ll go down to Hell myself to find something. I don’t think I can do that again.” He stood and grabbed the tongs, heading upstairs to the tiny kitchenette where they’d been keeping the handful of frozen dead mice they’d bought.

“I am _not_ doing that again,” Aziraphale corrected aloud to himself as he made his way up the stairs. The image of Crowley struggling to fight his own bodily processes as he tried to spit the mouse out was vivid in his mind.

But the tight, painful feeling in the pit of his stomach that had been crying out for food and making him tremble with fatigue was beginning to ease, and he knew he might well have saved Crowley’s life. But at what cost?

 

~~***~~

 

“This might be something,” Aziraphale said, drawing his finger along the page of the book in front of him, underlining its dark red text. “It’s just here in this addendum that lists the later accomplishments of Lucifer, but it sounds like Hell got its hands on part of the Ten Commandments.”

“I thought those were in the Ark of the Covenant? In Heaven?” Bert asked, looking up from where he was slogging through a dense text of his own.

“The second set is,” Aziraphale corrected. “God created the first set and gave them to Moses, but when he came down off the mountain and saw that the Israelites had started in on that whole golden calf nonsense, Moses smashed them and had to make a new set.”

Bert thought that through. “So Hell has the first set?”

“Part of it,” Aziraphale said, looking back down at the page. “I think Heaven has most of it, also in the Ark, but it sounds like Hell has a fragment of it. It must be a decent-sized piece, too, if they bothered to boast about it…”

“Does it say where they keep it?”

“Of course not,” Aziraphale said with a sigh. “Could be anywhere in Hell.”

“Can I see?” Bert asked, motioning to the book.

Aziraphale flipped the book closed briefly, keeping one hand on the appropriate page, checking the title. _An Historical Narrative of Our Lord Lucifer’s Fall_ read the cover.

“I think you’ll be okay with this one,” Aziraphale said, and handed Bert the book. Crowley had once warned him not to touch some of the hellish books, and Aziraphale had since passed that warning onto Bert. Aziraphale wasn’t entirely certain what made some of the books more dangerous than others, but Aziraphale had been human at the time, as Bert was now, and he was willing to wager that Crowley knew diabolical magic better than he did.

Bert took the book carefully and opened it to the page with the notation. Aziraphale started opening another of the hellish books, hoping to find one with a handy map of Hell he had somehow missed before.

“So this book’s really from Hell, huh?” Bert asked a moment later, flipping back through the pages, keeping the one in question marked with his thumb.

“Yep,” Aziraphale agreed, turning through his own book.

 _An Historical Narrative_ growled, and Bert patted its corner carefully. “Good book,” he said, and the book actually stopped growling and let out a slightly embarrassed smell of burnt paper.

There was a moment of silence and then Bert asked, “Hell has a library?”

“Yes, oddly enough,” Aziraphale said. “I’d be quite interested to see it, personally. Crowley’s mentioned it a few times. Why do you ask?”

“Just…that’s where this book’s from,” Bert said, tilting the book towards Aziraphale. He had opened it to the very first page, and there, right on the inside cover, was a large, rather fearsome-looking stamp.

“Huh,” said Aziraphale, wondering if someone had liberated the volume much like he had many of Heaven’s books. He ought to ask Crowley how he got it, one day. He swallowed. Ought to _have_ asked, perhaps.

“Crowley said they guard their books very jealously,” Aziraphale said, trying to distract himself. “They chain a lot of them to the shelves, poor things, and the library is even jointly guarded by the same demons who guard the—the—”

Aziraphale looked up at Bert in surprise. Bert was still examining the stamp on the inside cover.

“The treasure vault,” he finished. Aziraphale couldn’t believe he had remembered that modicum of information, once told to him by Crowley who knew how long ago.

Bert looked up at him then, and their eyes met. “Treasure vault? As in, ‘vault where we keep the bit of the Ten Commandments we nicked?’”

“I’d bet you anything it is,” Aziraphale said.

Bert grinned at him. “No bet.”

 

~~***~~

 

“Crowley?” Aziraphale asked, sitting on the floor next to the bookcase Crowley had taken refuge under for the last three days, ever since Aziraphale had fed him the mouse. He wasn’t even sure if Crowley was going back to his box for water and warmth, because Aziraphale was beginning to get cold again, though the intense hunger had lessened considerably.

There was no response from underneath the bookcase, and Aziraphale cautiously lowered his head closer to the floor, keeping it a healthy three-quarters of a metre away from the edge of the bookcase, trying to get Crowley in his line of sight.

The serpent was sprawled just out of reach under the bookcase, but his golden eyes tracked Aziraphale’s movements.

Aziraphale let out a worried sigh. “Look, Crowley,” he said, “I’m really sorry about earlier, okay? I won’t do it again, I promise.” Aziraphale swallowed and closed his eyes briefly. “I was just worried about you. But listen…we’ve come up with a way to turn you back, we think, using something that God imbued with His power. Heaven has loads of things that could work, but we’ve been phoning Kazariel for days and she won’t pick up…so I think I’m going to go to Hell and try to find something there.” Aziraphale paused in case Crowley wanted to respond to anything, but he remained motionless beneath the bookcase, eyes unblinking.

“Your neck of the woods, I know,” Aziraphale continued, throat tight, “and I’d take you with me, except I don't think you’d do very well. So I’m going alone, and Bert’s going to stay and look after you, okay? We’re getting some things together today, and then I’ll be leaving first thing tomorrow morning, if we don’t hear from Kazariel by then. If everything goes to plan, I won’t be gone for more than a day, and then I’ll be right back, okay? Back before you know it.”

Crowley’s tail shifted slightly but he made no move to come out from under the bookcase.

“We’re going to get you your powers back,” Aziraphale said. “And we’re going to get you turned back, Crowley, I swear that to you.” Aziraphale blinked and looked down at a nearby patch of floor. “I’d call it a suicide mission except I’m immortal, so…no need to worry about that, I suppose, huh?” He tried for a smile but it came out strained.

Aziraphale let out a worried huff and, after a moment’s thought, slowly extended a hand towards Crowley, underneath the bookcase. He moved slowly, trying to appear nonthreatening, but Crowley hissed at him nonetheless.

“It’s me,” Aziraphale said reassuringly. He just wanted to brush his fingers along Crowley’s scales one last time, in case things didn’t go as planned tomorrow—

Aziraphale still had his head pressed almost to the floor, looking under the bookcase at Crowley, and it was a good thing he did too, because it was at that moment that Crowley’s head struck forward, towards his hand. Aziraphale snatched his hand back as quickly as he could, pulling away from the bookcase. Crowley hissed at him as Aziraphale hastily looked over his unmarked hand, but either Crowley had only feinted or Aziraphale had managed to get his hand out of the way fast enough. Given what he knew about reflexes, he thought it was probably the former.

“My dear,” Aziraphale scolded automatically, but he couldn’t summon much anger into his tone. Mostly, he just felt a sharp pang, somewhere deep down.

Aziraphale swallowed and made his way to his feet. “I’ll find you tomorrow morning before I leave,” he said, and hastily walked away, blinking at a sudden wetness in his eyes.


	20. The Abyss

“He’ll be fine here with me,” Bert said a few hours later as Aziraphale fretted over leaving Crowley for the tenth time. “I’ll make up some more of that egg stuff and see if he’ll drink it this time, and yes, I’ll make sure he has plenty of water.”

“If Kazariel phones,” Aziraphale said, “and if I don’t come back, or if I take longer than twelve hours, explain what’s happened and see if she can get one of the relics from Heaven.”

“Aziraphale—” Bert began, but Aziraphale spoke over him.

“Listen, Crowley’s got to be our first priority,” Aziraphale said. “If Kazariel can grab the Staff of Moses or one of the other items, have her do the spell—I’ll write up a copy and leave it here—and then have her shift Crowley back into human form as well, using one of the other sigils.”

Bert opened his mouth to protest, but Aziraphale continued over him, “I’ll be fine, at least for a while. Help Crowley first, and if I’m still not back by then, well, then maybe—”

It was at that moment that the door to Aziraphale’s bookshop swung open with the tinkle of a bell.

Aziraphale turned, exasperation rising up in him at this most inopportune interruption by a potential customer, and only barely avoided the sword stroke aimed at his head.

Aziraphale twisted and ducked, stumbling backwards in surprise and almost stepping into Bert.

“Whoa,” Aziraphale said loudly, swinging his hands up in an effort to calm the woman coming at him with the sword. He also registered that there were three more people behind her, and even without his ability to sense auras he realised in a fraction of a second that they must be demons.

“Where is the traitor Crowley?” the female demon spat, moving forward and holding the tip of her sword to Aziraphale’s throat.

Aziraphale, for his part, kept scrambling backwards, still trying to get a handle on what exactly was happening. “Not here,” he managed.

“Kill them,” one of the demons behind her snapped, and she lunged forward with the sword. Aziraphale twisted away at the last second, grabbing the hilt and trying to force the sword from her hand. He kicked her in the shins as he did so, and she staggered but kept a strong grip on the sword.

Over her shoulder, Aziraphale saw Bert roll up his sleeves and expertly dodge the opening strike of the first of two demons closing in on him.

The female demon yanked her sword free of Aziraphale’s interfering grip and started to bring the hilt around to slam into his head. He saw it coming and ducked, tackling her around the middle and sending them both crashing to the floor. Aziraphale landed on top of her and took the opportunity to knock the sword from her grip. He caught a glimpse of movement out of the corner of his eye and realised the fourth demon must be standing right above him.

Aziraphale quickly rolled off of the female demon and onto the sword he’d just knocked from her grip, only narrowly avoiding the swinging blade of the demon above him.

The demon—a snarling fellow with a streak of grey in his hair—pursued Aziraphale as the former angel scrambled to his feet, taking the sword from the floor with him.

“What do you want with Crowley?” Aziraphale demanded all in a rush as he parried a jab from the demon with the two-coloured hair.

“Justice,” the demon hissed, executing a surprisingly deft feint to the right before closing in on the left. Aziraphale saw it coming too late and tried to shift his defence, but felt a flash of pain in his side before he could knock the demon’s sword away. Aziraphale staggered to the side in surprise and directly into the female demon, who’d just regained her feet.

Her hand closed around Aziraphale’s, trying to wrest her sword back from him.

“We’ve been tracking that traitor for weeks,” she hissed, slamming her elbow hard into Aziraphale’s ribs as she yanked at the sword in his hand.

Aziraphale felt all the air leave his lungs and he tried to push her away, struggling to maintain his grip on the only weapon he had. She proved annoyingly stubborn, and when the other demon moved around to try to stab Aziraphale in his unprotected side, he was forced to twist the other way, keeping the female demon between them while maintaining an increasingly tenuous grip on the sword.

The female demon twisted her hand and the hilt was wrenched from Aziraphale’s grip. She was too close to put the blade into play, but she wasted no time in punching him across the face with the hilt.

Aziraphale staggered sideways with the force of the blow, head spinning and the taste of blood flooding his mouth as pain blossomed across his cheek. He staggered into one of his bookcases and felt his hand close around a ribbed leather spine. The female demon followed him, intending to finish the job, and Aziraphale turned and slammed the cover of his copy of the _Malleus Maleficarum_ across her face as hard as he could.

It knocked her to the floor, and Aziraphale hastily returned his attention to the grey-haired demon, who was closing in again with his sword at the ready. Over his shoulder, Aziraphale saw Bert clock one of the demons rushing at him with a fearsome left hook. It looked like breaking up pub fights had taught him something after all.

The grey-haired demon surged forward and Aziraphale clumsily knocked the blade of his sword away with the _Malleus Maleficarum_ , though the reverberation ripped the book from his hands. Aziraphale knew he didn’t stand a chance fighting a sword without a weapon of comparable length, so he stepped closer instead, grabbing onto the demon’s sword hand. He shoved the blade down and to the side as he brought his other fist around towards his attacker’s face.

The demon saw it coming, and before Aziraphale could follow through he’d slammed his own fist hard into Aziraphale’s side, right where he’d slashed him earlier. Aziraphale gasped in pain, the demon easily ducking Aziraphale’s wide swing, and a moment later the demon wrestled back control of his sword hand. He slammed the pommel into Aziraphale’s head, pushing them apart as he did so.

Aziraphale staggered backwards, head pounding, and would have certainly fallen to his knees had he not bumped into one of his bookcases again, elbows and hands scrambling to find enough purchase to keep him on his feet.

In front of him, the demon with the streak of grey in his hair was closing in, sword hand drawn back. The female demon was a little behind him, beginning to pick herself up from the floor and looking very groggy. Bert was being thrown to the floor somewhere beyond that.

Aziraphale tried to fix his gaze back on the demon in front of him, the one surging forward with sword poised to strike, but his dazed brain couldn’t decide whether he wanted to dodge left or right, and his trembling feet might not have supported him either way. Aziraphale drew a rasping breath, preparing for the worst, and that was when a black, iridescent streak flashed out from underneath the bookcase opposite them.

Crowley darted across the space and slid to a halt directly behind the grey-haired demon. In the blink of an eye, before Aziraphale could fully process what was happening, Crowley had reared up, serpentine body forming a perfect ‘S’ curve. And then his head struck forward, fangs sinking deeply into the heel of the demon about to run his sword through Aziraphale.

The demon screeched, an unbelievably loud noise, and spun, sword swinging down in Crowley’s direction. An elegant arc of crimson sprang through the air and Aziraphale felt a burst of pain.

“No!” Aziraphale shouted, trying to take a step forward and almost falling, legs still shaking as his head spun.

The demon’s sword clattered to the bookshop floor and somehow Crowley must have pulled his fangs free, because Aziraphale saw him sprawled on the sigil-covered floor a few metres away as the demon screeched again.

The two demons who’d been grappling with Bert paused and looked over at their companion, as did the female demon halfway to her feet beside Aziraphale.

The grey-haired demon fell to his knees, shaking, and for a moment all of them just stared at him as his convulsions grew stronger, skin whitening in shock, the mark on his heel bright red.

And then, all at once, he dropped to the floor and went very still, the demon abruptly abandoning his corporation.

The whole thing took only a second or two; Aziraphale’s head was still clearing. _Crowley was venomous after all_ , he thought numbly.

The remaining demons looked at each other, and as one they surged for the door. Aziraphale took a wobbling step towards Crowley, finally finding his feet.

“Aziraphale!” Bert shouted, and Aziraphale’s head swung around to see the barman in the grip of two demons as the third hastily tore open the bookshop door. As he watched, one of the demons slammed the hilt of his sword into Bert’s head and the barman sagged. They dragged the unconscious Bert out into the street with them, the bell tinkling as the door swung shut behind them, and then, all at once, the shop was empty.

For a second Aziraphale just stood there, head throbbing and side burning, torn between going after Bert and helping Crowley. Then Crowley twitched weakly on the chalk-streaked floor, and Aziraphale’s mind was made up.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale asked hoarsely, staggering over to where his friend was beginning to convulse on the bookshop floor. He dropped to his knees next to Crowley, feeling a wave of fear crash over him at the sight of the pool of blood already beginning to form on the bookshop floor. Aziraphale laid a steadying, shaking hand on the iridescent serpent as he struggled to assess the damage.

The demon’s sword had slashed along Crowley lengthwise and at a slight diagonal, cutting a long, deep valley through Crowley’s scales. Aziraphale couldn’t tell how deep it went, but he could see a row of white lines he was fairly certain were ribs, the delicate bones severed or crushed out of alignment. The white was quickly being overwhelmed by red, though, blood flowing out of the wound at an alarming rate. It didn’t help any that Crowley was thrashing around, smearing blood all over the floor and his beautiful scales—

“Hold on, Crowley, just— _God_ —” Aziraphale scrambled to his feet, shoes slipping on a smear of blood, and sprinted for the door. He yanked one of his scarves free from the handful of hooks near the door and sprinted back. He dropped to his knees again and tried to get Crowley to stop moving for a second, but either Crowley wasn’t listening or he couldn’t control it, because he kept shaking and convulsing, thrashing back and forth. Crowley’s flanks were rising and falling in rapid, shallow breaths, and more blood seeped from the wound with each wheezing inhale.

Aziraphale slid the scarf under Crowley as quickly as he could and started winding it around the slash, pulling the makeshift bandage as tight as he dared. Blood started soaking through almost immediately, staining the material as Crowley wheezed brokenly and continued to convulse.

And then Aziraphale pulled Crowley into his arms, holding him tight to his chest, and realised with a tremor of fear that he didn’t know what to do. Crowley was cold against him, slick with blood and shaking, and Aziraphale…didn’t know what to do.

Bert’s voice floated back to him: _We could…I dunno, try taking him to a vet or something…_

 _A vet_.

Aziraphale scrambled to his feet, keeping the squirming Crowley pressed against his chest, and staggered towards the counter at the back of the bookshop. He grabbed Crowley’s mobile and opened the navigation app. He typed in _vet_ with a shaking thumb and then quickly added _emergency_. He dropped the phone back onto the counter as Crowley’s squirmings began to lessen in intensity. He was so cold in Aziraphale’s arms, and Aziraphale could feel the same cold creeping over him now, accompanied by searing pain and fear.

 _Cold-blooded_ , Aziraphale remembered all in a rush. _Ectothermic. He takes his warmth from the environment_. He’d lost a lot of blood already.

Aziraphale hastily tapped on the closest vet that had come up on Crowley’s mobile—a clinic called Easter Animal Hospital only 1.4 miles away—and dropped to his knees again, setting Crowley as gently as he could onto the floor. Aziraphale pulled his jumper off over his head and tore the collar of his shirt open, fingers fumbling with the buttons. In front of him, Crowley was moving sluggishly, breaths rasping wetly as he tried to nose his way closer to Aziraphale.

Aziraphale picked him up hastily and began looping Crowley around his neck, tucking him under his shirt and letting him draw warmth directly from his core. Crowley’s scales were freezing against his bare chest, but Aziraphale only wound him tighter and scrambled to his feet. He grabbed Crowley’s mobile and sprinted towards the door of the bookshop.

Aziraphale skidded past several very alarmed passersby and jumped into the Bentley, which was still parked outside. He pressed the button on Crowley’s mobile for navigation, and it began loading.

Crowley had always started the Bentley with magic, but as Aziraphale fumbled around now he found a set of keys in the back of the glove compartment, behind all the cassette tapes that played nothing but Queen; he’d thought Crowley had kept a spare set for emergencies. Aziraphale started the car with trembling fingers, shifted it into gear, swerved into the road, and slammed on the accelerator.

Around his neck, Crowley adjusted his position slightly, head brushing over Aziraphale’s bare chest until he found the former angel’s hammering heart.

 _“Turn right onto Oxford Street in 250 metres,_ ” instructed the sat nav on Crowley’s mobile.

“Another One Bites the Dust,” started playing on the Blaupunkt, and Aziraphale quickly turned it off so he could hear the navigation.

“Hold on, Crowley, please, we’re getting help,” Aziraphale said, completely ignoring the traffic light in front of him and swerving onto Oxford Street, barely avoiding clipping a black cab.

 _“Turn left onto Tottenham Court Road in 300 metres,”_ the sat nav informed him calmly.

Around his neck, Crowley’s coils abruptly tightened, and for a moment Aziraphale’s throat closed completely, but then they loosened and Aziraphale sucked in a breath.

The traffic in front of him was barely moving, so Aziraphale crashed over the central reservation and ran down the wrong side for a couple dozen metres, driving as recklessly as Crowley but without any of the benefits of magic.

“Almost there,” Aziraphale lied, swerving around oncoming traffic and cutting across an intersection, skidding into his next turn. He only narrowly avoided several collisions, a cacophony of honks exploding behind him as he ran up on the edge of the pavement and shot down Great Russell Street at a speed Crowley would have been proud of. Simultaneously, Aziraphale knew Crowley would kill him if he got so much as a scratch on his precious Bentley, but he would gladly accept any punishment Crowley meted out, so long as it was by his own hand.

_“Turn right onto Bloomsbury Square in 400 metres.”_

Crowley’s coils tightened around his neck again, but looser this time, and then they relaxed all at once. Aziraphale realised with mounting panic that Crowley was convulsing again.

Aziraphale drove up on the pavement outside the British Museum to avoid a stationary lorry and sped through another red light, laying on the horn to convince the pedestrians crossing in front of him to quickly rethink their decision.

_“Turn right onto Bloomsbury Square.”_

Crowley shivered, the movement exquisitely palpable to Aziraphale, Crowley’s skin so very cold against his own, Crowley’s head an ice cube over his heart.

“I—I’ve got you, my dear,” Aziraphale stammered, swerving onto the appropriate road, Bloomsbury Square Garden filling his entire left-hand field of vision, a green haven of trees and hedges. “You’re going to be just fine.”

_“Turn left onto Bloomsbury Way.”_

Aziraphale almost missed the turn, accelerating to narrowly avoid a collision as pedestrians shouted and dove out of his way.

Crowley tightened around his neck again, but the constriction was tiny and Crowley’s blood was cold and sticky against his neck. Aziraphale swallowed, feeling the movement against Crowley’s cold scales.

_“Use the left two lanes to turn slightly left onto Theobolds Road.”_

The road in front of him was jammed with traffic, so Aziraphale swerved onto a side street, ignoring the fact that he was going the wrong way down a one way.

_“Recalculating.”_

The part of Aziraphale that he knew had once belonged to Crowley was beginning to lose its brightness, growing cold within him.

“Crowley, please, you’ve got to stay with me,” Aziraphale begged, shivering as he shot the Bentley down another one way, heedless of the oncoming traffic, which veered onto the pavement to avoid him. “I need you to stay with me.”

_Let’s say, immortal barring accidents._

Aziraphale swerved back onto Theobolds Road, and a quick glance at Crowley’s mobile showed that they were only a few intersections away.

“We’re almost there,” he told Crowley, voice shaking.

 _“Turn left onto Nightshade Road in 200 metres, and your destination is on the left,”_ the sat nav informed him.

Aziraphale swerved onto the last road, eyes frantically searching the shopfronts. A green and white sign caught his eye, and he crashed the Bentley up onto the pavement outside of it, slamming on the brakes so hard he almost pitched forward into the windscreen. Head ringing, Aziraphale opened the door and got out, leaving the Bentley still running, and staggered into the clinic.

“Emergency,” Aziraphale shouted as he staggered inside, eyes flashing to the lone receptionist. _Easter Animal Hospital_ was printed in large, friendly green letters behind her on top of a rather tacky wallpaper scattered with white Easter lilies. “Emergency—please—help—”

The receptionist actually stood up in surprise, and then hastily picked up the handset of the phone on her desk.

Aziraphale skidded to a halt in front of the desk as the receptionist quickly said something into the receiver, hung the phone back up, and turned to him.

“Stay calm, sir,” she said, and opened her mouth to say something more, but just then a door banged open in a hallway leading further into the hospital. A very alarmed-looking Asian woman appeared from behind it, rushing towards them.

She took one look at Aziraphale, skidded to a halt, and darted out of Aziraphale’s view behind another door.

“Please—” Aziraphale said again, but the woman reappeared a moment later, rolling a fully-stocked trolley in front of her and with a second woman on her heels.

Relieved by the arrival of what looked like certified professionals, Aziraphale hastily began unwinding Crowley from around his neck, feeling his fingers growing slick with blood as he did so.

“What happened?” the Asian woman demanded as she reached Aziraphale, the trolley skidding to a halt beside him.

“He—there’s a gash—” Aziraphale stammered, abruptly realising he couldn’t just say Crowley had been hit by a sword without a lot of explanation.

“How long ago?” she asked quickly as Aziraphale continued unwinding Crowley from around his neck. Crowley seemed to realise Aziraphale was trying to separate them, though, and he wrapped his tail around Aziraphale’s forearm.

“Five—five minutes?” Aziraphale stammered. “Ten? I—I don’t—”

The vet tried taking Crowley from him, and Aziraphale tried handing him to her, but Crowley had tightened his grip convulsively on Aziraphale’s arm and didn’t seem to want to let go. His sides were barely moving now, but he was still making wet, rasping breathing noises, and his head was moving blindly back in Aziraphale’s direction, pupils blown so wide there were only a few slivers of that beautiful gold left.

“Any medicines he can’t have? Allergies?”

“I—I don’t think so—”

The vet succeeded in pulling Crowley from Aziraphale’s grip, setting him on a towel stretched over the top of the trolley.

The second woman was already holding Crowley’s head steady, deftly slipping a tube down his throat. “Pale mucous membrane,” she said quickly, glancing between her watch and something in Crowley’s mouth. “CR’s over three seconds, shock—”

“Please,” Aziraphale gasped, “save him. You need to keep him alive—”

“We’ll do our best,” the Asian vet said hurriedly, already pushing the trolley back down the hallway.

“Tachycardia,” the second vet relayed, “probably peripheral vasoconstriction, weak pulse—”

Aziraphale took an unsteady step after them, terrified to let Crowley leave his sight, but then they veered through a doorway and were gone.

Crowley’s name was still hanging unspoken on Aziraphale’s lips as he blinked after them.

“Can I take your details, sir?” the receptionist asked, having come out from around her desk, a clipboard and pen in hand. Aziraphale turned his eyes back on her, heart hammering. She glanced up at him and did a double take. “Are _you_ all right?”

It took him a few seconds to realise she was probably referring to the red mark on his cheek, and another to remember that his side was throbbing. When he looked down at himself, he saw that the side of his shirt was soaked with blood, with more smeared along his collar and probably around his throat too.

He was cold and trembling and utterly terrified, shock beginning to set in, and he honestly didn’t know whether that was Crowley or himself.

Aziraphale pointed a trembling hand at the double doors. “ _Save him_ ,” he repeated, and turned and sprinted out of the hospital.

 

~~***~~

 

Crowley was terrified.

He didn’t know what was happening, but every inch of him was cold and burning hot at the same time, and his mind kept stalling.

He’d been taken from the warmth of his angel’s shoulders, which terrified him even more, because he’d known that he would be safe as long as he stayed there. But now, for the first time he could remember, every scrap of his angel’s presence was fading from his awareness and he knew he was truly and properly alone.

Crowley tried to take a breath but it was wet and just made his head spin faster. There was a tube shoved down his throat, and it seemed to be helping somewhat, expelling breaths into his lungs for him. The world was a blur of light, colour, and sound, but he couldn’t parse any of it. A wave of dizziness crashed over him, pain dancing along every nerve.

Now something warm was being pressed to his sides, and there was a faint prick on one of his flanks. A moment later, there was a very bizarre feeling of warmth flowing _into_ him from where he’d felt the prick.

He felt the binding his angel had wrapped around him come unwound, and a fresh wave of pain rolled over him, threatening to drag him down into the darkness. Crowley felt his pupils constrict slightly, and for a singular moment he was able to pick out what was directly in front of him: a room filled with grey objects with lots of knobs and things he felt he had once known the names for. His eyes fixated slowly on the pattern printed on the walls behind them, intertwined lilies in full bloom, white petals curling over each other.

 _Death cometh amongst the lilies’ bloom_ , he thought sluggishly, and then a burst of pain exploded across his side and all consciousness fled him.

 

~~***~~

 

Aziraphale drew the last glyph and straightened up, giving the hastily-scrawled sigil on the back wall of his bookshop one last look-over.

Deciding it was close enough, Aziraphale shoved the piece of chalk in his hand into his pocket and tossed the book he’d copied the sigil from onto the floor, exchanging it for _An Historical Narrative_.

Then he sprinted upstairs and rummaged around until he found the same satchel whose ethereal counterpart he had used in Heaven, and proceeded to shove the hellish book into it. Next, he retrieved from the holdall the sword that had once been entrusted to him as a Guardian of Eden. The hilt felt reassuringly solid in his hand, but of course no flames burst to life along its blade.

Aziraphale took the stairs three at a time as he hurried back downstairs, skidding to a halt in front of the sigil. Deep within him, he could feel Crowley still hanging on, clinging stubbornly to life, but he could also feel his light beginning to dim.

“ _Animach lez bezoat alkokohot agnenum eta heta delacleta to ema comineazee_ ,” Aziraphale said quickly, and pressed his hand to the wound in his side, gasping a little at the contact. He touched his bloodied hand to the sigil, and the wall disintegrated beneath his fingers.

A dark chasm opened in front of Aziraphale. A streak of red lightning flashed through it, revealing a tunnel made of slick dark rock. Aziraphale stepped forward and descended into Hell.

 

~~***~~

 

 _An Historical Narrative_ knew the way. It was clear the book had no desire to be back in Hell, but Aziraphale didn’t give it any choice in the matter.

“Take me to where they keep prisoners,” Aziraphale demanded, holding the book in one hand, unflaming sword in the other as he descended into the Abyss.

 _An Historical Narrative_ quivered unhappily but flipped its cover up obligingly. Aziraphale adjusted his grip so the book was lying open in his hand. The book fluttered both its left- and right-hand pages, and Aziraphale took that to mean he ought to go forward.

Aziraphale was fairly deep into the circles when he came across his first demon. The creature did a double take when it saw him, evidently surprised to see a blood-streaked human bearing down on him with a holy sword in one hand and a hellish book in the other.

The demon snarled and jumped at him, and Aziraphale dodged and ran him through.

It took a second for Aziraphale to draw his sword out of the demon, and he felt the precious time trickle through his fingers. Deep in his chest, Crowley convulsed, light growing a little dimmer. Icy fingers wrapped themselves around Aziraphale, and he broke into a sprint.

 _An Historical Narrative_ indicated when he should turn, and even warned him with a small wail when a demon was drawing near. Given that Aziraphale had lost his ability to feel auras, this was incredibly helpful, and Aziraphale managed to avoid a great deal of trouble by tucking himself into the myriad of fissures in the dark rock around him and waiting for the demon to pass by.

It was clear something was wrong with Hell, though; Aziraphale had already made the third circle without being properly challenged, and when he turned the next corner he saw one demon in the process of ripping out the throat of another, jet black wings raised overhead.

Aziraphale hastily backpedalled and retreated around the corner. _An Historical Narrative_ gave a surprised little wheeze.

“I take it that’s not normal?” Aziraphale hissed to the book. It gave a rattle of agreement.

Aziraphale gave it another moment and then inched back around the corner, slipping down a side tunnel as _An Historical Narrative_ fluttered one of its pages.

Aziraphale descended deeper, knocking out or killing the occasional demon he couldn’t avoid and slipping deeper into Hell. The cold feeling in his chest grew even icier, Crowley’s light beginning to stutter as it flickered weaker.

He redoubled his grip on the hilt of his sword and prayed that Crowley would hold on just a little bit longer.

 _An Historical Narrative_ made a grating noise, and as Aziraphale rounded the next corner he saw two demons guarding a large metal door.

They seemed just as surprised to see Aziraphale, but Aziraphale wasted no time moving forward, sword poised to strike.

The first one moved forward, drawing her own sword, and Aziraphale knocked her blade aside and jabbed her hard in the face with the pommel of his own, sending her slumping against the dark wall.

The second stepped forward and raised his hand, clearly intending on destroying Aziraphale through magical means. Aziraphale felt a surge of diabolical power roll over him, but it passed by without doing more than brush past him; his newfound immortality must be protecting him even now. Aziraphale smiled.

The demon blanched and surged past him back down the corridor, ducking and keeping as much distance between himself and Aziraphale as possible. Aziraphale let him go.

The door was locked, but even though the sword in Aziraphale’s hand wasn’t flaming, it was still a celestial blade fit for a cherub.

Aziraphale slammed the edge of the blade into the lock and it exploded in a shower of sparks. He snapped _An Historical Narrative_ closed and kicked the door open.

There was a short hallway behind it with heavy iron doors leading off at regular intervals; Aziraphale supposed this must be the holding area for the occasional, exceptional prisoner.

“Bert?” Aziraphale called as he strode forward, blood dripping off the blade of his sword and leaving a trail of dark dots behind him.

“A—Aziraphale?” Bert’s voice responded, hope ringing through his muffled tone.

“Bert?” Aziraphale asked again, drawing close to where he’d heard the barman’s voice and trying to pinpoint which door he was behind.

“Here!” Bert shouted, and there was a scuffling noise from behind the door on Aziraphale’s right.

“Stand back,” Aziraphale said, and slammed the edge of the sword into the door’s lock. Before the sparks had finishing fading, he was pushing it open to see Bert standing against the opposite wall. He was in shackles but appeared largely unharmed apart from a bruise and a trickle of dried blood on his cheek, and he looked incredibly relieved to see Aziraphale.

“Oh, thank God, I wasn’t sure if you’d come after me,” Bert said, voice choking. “This is _Hell_ —”

“Yeah, and I wasn’t going to leave you here, now was I?” Aziraphale asked, moving forward and working the tip of his sword into a gap in the metal of the shackles. The divine blade glowed slightly as it contacted the diabolical warding, and the hellish metal snapped.

“Whoa,” Bert said as his shackles fell away, staring at his wrists.

“Come on,” Aziraphale said, turning and striding out of the cell. Crowley was fading further, numbness creeping over Aziraphale, and he knew he couldn’t afford to lose any more time.

“Is Crowley okay?” Bert asked as he followed Aziraphale, hot on his heels.

“No,” Aziraphale said shortly, striding back out of the prison and flipping _An Historical Narrative_ open to the first page.

“What? Is he—”

“Still alive,” Aziraphale said, coming to a stop. He turned back to Bert and shoved _An Historical Narrative_ into his hands. “I opened a portal to get here, and the demons look like they’re infighting or something, so it should still be open. The book knows the way back; it’ll show you.”

Bert blanched under the bruise and smear of soot on his face. “ _The way out of Hell?_ But what about you—”

“I’m going to break into Hell’s vault,” Aziraphale said shortly, adjusting his grip on the sword. “I’ll meet back up with you later.”

“But—don’t you need the book to show you the way?” Bert asked, sounding bewildered.

“I can find my way from here,” Aziraphale said, already turning away. “It’s a library book; the stamp on the inside cover has the address written on it.”

He heard Bert protesting further, but Aziraphale simply didn’t have time to explain it to him better.

“Follow the book!” Aziraphale shouted over his shoulder as he sprinted away down one of the dark corridors.

Aziraphale descended another circle unchallenged. Without the book, he didn’t have any warning of when demons were approaching, but he also had both hands free and the element of surprise.

He was beginning to run into groups of demons now instead of lone ones, factions moving around in packs, most of which scattered when they saw him.

Aziraphale moved his way deeper, the celestial blade flashing in his hand, until he reached Hell’s vault.

He passed the library first, knocking the very surprised demon guarding it hard on the head with the hilt of his sword. As much as he wanted to take the opportunity to liberate the books, he could feel Crowley fading even further, just faint impressions of him all he had left.

Aziraphale turned the corner and saw the door to Hell’s vault. The demon guarding it was a higher rank than his previous challengers, but he still started in surprise when he saw Aziraphale.

“You’re that _angel_ —” he said in astonishment as Aziraphale approached.

Aziraphale didn’t reply, rushing forward with sword at the ready, preparing to run him through, but the demon only ducked to the side. “All yours,” he said hastily, whipping his wings out of reach of Aziraphale’s sword and dodging past him.

Aziraphale’s eyes tracked him suspiciously, but the demon raised his hands in surrender. “I’m not dying for this cesspit,” he said.

Aziraphale thought that was fair enough, so he stepped past him and struck at the door with his sword. Sparks flew, but the lock did not break.

Aziraphale turned back to the demon, who was still standing nearby, watching him but not attempting to interfere. “Keys?” he barked.

“Oh, ah…” The demon stepped forward, edging around Aziraphale, and touched a circular mark on the edge of the door. There was a noise like a bolt being drawn back. “Don’t smite me, please,” he said, touching another circle on the door.

“Why are you being so helpful?” Aziraphale asked suspiciously.

“You’re with Crowley, right?” the demon asked, touching a third circle. “Who returned to Heaven?”

Aziraphale frowned at him. “Yes,” he said, deciding that was probably the right answer.

“Like I said,” the demon said, pushing the door open and edging away. “I’m not dying for this cesspit, and I’m not dying _in_ this cesspit either. You’ll put in a good word for me?”

Aziraphale frankly didn’t have a clue what the demon was going on about, but the sense of urgency in the pit of his stomach was growing, and he didn’t have time for this.

“Yes, yes,” Aziraphale said, pushing past him. The demon gave him a bizarre sort of half-bow and ran off.

Aziraphale shoved the vault door open and stepped inside.

He supposed he should have been impressed by the piles of treasures and relics heaped in front of him, but his heart was beginning to race in his chest, and he knew he was here for one thing only.

Aziraphale moved forward, dodging around an old chest holding what might have been one of the trumpets from Jericho. There was an enormous mountain of gold and gems in front of him, littered with bones that must have once belonged to someone quite important. A sheen of gold off to the side drew Aziraphale’s eye, and he saw what appeared to be the Golden Calf. And sitting near its base…

Aziraphale hurried over, knocking aside a blade that looked like it was made from the jawbone of an animal, and touched the Word of God.

The fragment of the Ten Commandments was a little larger than his hand, smooth on one side and covered with large characters on the other. The moment Aziraphale touched it, he could feel the power coursing through it, even human as he was. It was bright and incredibly powerful, and seemed to hold the very Light of Creation.

It appeared to be a fragment of the commandment about not stealing, the irony of which Aziraphale noted as he shoved it into his satchel and rushed out of the vault. Now he just had to make it back to Crowley, draw the sigil, and perform the spell—of course, getting _out_ of Hell had always been the hard part of the plan.

Aziraphale sprinted out of the vault, the corridor in front of him deserted. He had only taken a half-dozen steps forward when the light deep in his chest that was Crowley flickered, stuttered weakly, and went out.

Aziraphale stumbled to a halt, the soles of his shoes catching on the uneven floor. He took a deep breath but the light in his chest did not reignite. His system was beginning to register the shock, and it felt like he’d taken a blow to the chest. Simultaneously, a cold, dark hole was beginning to open up deep in his core as he felt a part of himself die with Crowley.

Aziraphale tried to take another breath but it caught in his throat. He staggered sideways and fell against the dark stone wall of the tunnel, sword growing heavy in his slack grip.

He reached inside himself, searching desperately for Crowley, but even that hint of his friend’s aura Aziraphale had recently been able to detect was rapidly fading away, and he found only the dark, cold, hollow chasm inside himself.

Aziraphale fell to his knees, sword clattering to the ground in front of him, and couldn’t feel Crowley anywhere.


	21. Lilies' Bloom

IT’S NOT EVERY DAY I GET TO REAP AN ANGEL, said a voice that seemed to encompass the entire cosmos.

Crowley blinked in surprise, trying to get his bearings. There was a wall plastered with images of lilies in front of him. His memory was a haze.

AND IT’S NOT EVERY DAY I GET TO REAP A DEMON, the voice continued from behind Crowley.

Crowley spun, confusion shooting through him.

SO IMAGINE MY INTEREST IN REAPING SOMEONE WHO’S BEEN BOTH.

Crowley blinked at the skeletal figure standing behind him, draped in dark robes that appeared to contain entire galaxies in their folds.

HELLO, CROWLEY, Death said. I’VE BEEN WAITING FOR YOU FOR A VERY LONG TIME.

“W—what?” Crowley stammered, and then realised he could speak without hissing again.

He looked down at himself, and was startled to see that he was back in his human form. Hands, arms, legs, even his regular suit with the scarf Aziraphale had given him wrapped securely around his neck. He took a surprised half-step backwards, legs suddenly a bit wobbly.

“I’m human again!” he exclaimed. “Well, human-shaped, at least,” he amended.

NOT REALLY, Death said, a tad tediously. IT’S JUST HOW YOUR SUBCONSCIOUS RENDERS YOURSELF IN THIS SPACE.

Crowley turned his gaze back to Death, taking in his presence properly for the first time.

“Oh…no,” Crowley said. His mind was beginning to clear, and he was slowly remembering what had happened. He looked down at the empty table separating him and Death, and knew that, even now, just out of sight, his serpentine form must be sprawled there, growing cold. He shivered. A hand went automatically to his side, the closest approximation on his human body of where the long gash had been, but his skin seemed unbroken. “I died without my powers, didn’t I? No powers, no discorporation. No discorporation…” Crowley paled. “I’m properly dead, aren’t I?” He leaned back heavily, propping himself up against one of the tables behind him.

THAT IS WHY I AM HERE, said Death.

Crowley’s mind was flipping back to Aziraphale, and he felt himself blanch even further. “Aziraphale…” he began hoarsely. Crowley remembered the state Aziraphale’s death had put him in, and he felt his heart constrict in fear at the prospect of inflicting that same fate on the former angel. He shifted his gaze back to Death. “Do you know if he’s going to be all right? Can I see him?”

Death, for some reason, seemed amused by this request. HE WANTED TO KNOW THAT, TOO.

Crowley blinked at him. “Who?”

AZIRAPHALE.

Crowley could only look at Death for a moment, letting the implications of that sink in. “You reaped Aziraphale?”

WHO ELSE DID YOU THINK DID IT?

Crowley blinked. “I—I mean…he didn’t say anything about you.”

THAT’S BECAUSE HE DOESN’T REMEMBER ME. NONE OF THE MORTALS EVER DO.

“…Okay,” Crowley said slowly. “But can I see him?” Crowley was remembering the promise he had made Aziraphale that he wouldn’t leave him, and couldn’t bear the thought that he would be breaking yet another promise to his angel—his _last_ promise to his angel. Just once, he wanted to show Aziraphale that he was as good as his word.

PATIENCE, Death said.

Crowley blinked at him, puzzled. “ _Patience?”_ he repeated. “Aren’t you just going to reap me and—” He couldn’t even begin to comprehend what must come next, just _nothing_ , forever.

NO, Death said, and it was a mark of just how distracted Crowley was that it took him a moment to register this.

“Wait, _what?”_

I CANNOT REAP YOU, Death said, and sounded awfully smug about it.

Crowley stared at him. That was the sort of thing you only imagined Death would say to you.

“…You’re joking,” Crowley said, and really hoped he wasn’t.

NO, said Death. THOUGH IT WOULD BE QUITE THE JOKE, WOULDN’T IT?

“Hilarious,” Crowley said, but his heart was beating twice as fast and he was beginning to allow himself to think that maybe he would be able to keep his promise after all. “Er, why can’t you reap me?”

Death leaned forward and extended a skeletal hand across the table. Crowley leaned back automatically—letting Death touch you seemed like a very dangerous thing.

Death reached forward anyway, extending his skeletal forefinger towards Crowley’s chest. Crowley backed up until he couldn’t retreat any further, and the tip of Death’s white finger touched Crowley on the sternum. There was an intensely bizarre sensation like cold water seeping through him, radiating from the tip of Death’s finger and running throughout him like he was highlighting a vein of silver among ore. It was a profoundly uncomfortable sensation, like Death was touching something extremely intimate, and it took Crowley’s breath away.

 _THAT_ IS WHY I CANNOT REAP YOU, Death said, leaning back. Crowley rubbed his chest self-consciously, feeling his awareness of the silver veins fade away.

“What is it?” Crowley asked.

Death gave him a slightly amused look; or, rather, Crowley thought it was a slightly amused look.

YOU DON’T KNOW MUCH ABOUT SOULS, DO YOU, CROWLEY? Death asked.

“Er,” said Crowley, who had thought he did but wasn’t so sure anymore.

WHAT DO YOU IMAGINE A SOUL IS? Death asked. A TIN OF BISCUITS, PERHAPS, OR A BAG OF MARBLES, WHERE YOU CAN JUST GIVE ONE TO ANYONE YOU LIKE?

Crowley realised this was about the bit of his soul he had given to Aziraphale, and shifted uncomfortably on his feet.

SOULS DO NOT COME IN DISCRETE UNITS, Death said, turning and walking towards one side of the small room, gesturing with skeletal hands, black robe shifting to follow his movements. THEY ARE FLUID, ORGANIC THINGS. WHEN YOU TAKE A PIECE OF ONE SOUL AND GIVE IT TO ANOTHER, IT DOES NOT REMAIN APART. THE SOULS BLEND, AND IT IS IMPOSSIBLE TO SEPARATE THEM AFTERWARDS.

Crowley worked through that. “Er, okay,” he said.

BUT THE OTHER THING ABOUT SOULS, Death said, IS THAT, THOUGH THEY DO NOT COME IN DISCRETE UNITS, THEY DO HAVE A CERTAIN DEFAULT QUANTITY THEY MUST ALWAYS MAINTAIN.

“A…quantity?” Crowley repeated, lost.

ALL SOULS ARE THE SAME…SIZE, I SUPPOSE, Death explained. OR PERHAPS VOLUME IS A BETTER WORD. A SOUL CANNOT EXIST AND BE SMALLER OR LARGER THAN ITS ORIGINAL SIZE. YOU CANNOT HAVE ONE AND A HALF SOULS, FOR INSTANCE.

Crowley thought that through, and froze when he realised the implications of it. His hand went back to his sternum, where Death had touched him.

WHICH MEANS THAT, WHEN YOU GAVE PART OF YOUR SOUL TO AZIRAPHALE, Death explained patiently, AZIRAPHALE GAVE YOU PART OF HIS IN RETURN.

“No way,” Crowley said, feeling at his sternum again. When he’d picked up Aziraphale’s emotions occasionally, he’d thought it was just a consequence of the bond that had been created between them when Crowley had given Aziraphale part of his soul; he had never expected to receive anything in return.

SOULS ARE STRANGE THINGS, Death continued. EVEN WHEN SPLIT, THEY MAINTAIN A LINK WITH THEIR ORIGINAL OWNER, AND THIS LINK CAN BE STRONGER THAN THAT WITH THE NEW SOUL THE PIECE HAS BOUND ITSELF TO. THINK QUANTUM ENTANGLEMENT.

Crowley looked at Death wordlessly. “So…I’m not dead because Aziraphale has a piece of my soul…?”

NO, Death said. THE PART YOU GAVE AZIRAPHALE HAS DIED WITH YOU. IT HAS A STRONGER CONNECTION TO YOU THAN HIM.

“So I’m not dead because I have part of _Aziraphale’s soul?”_ Crowley said in confusion, still rubbing at his chest and trying to find the part of Aziraphale that he supposed must be nestled inside of him somewhere. A bit to his surprise, he was able to find it quite easily. He wasn’t sure how he’d missed it before.

THAT WOULDN’T USUALLY BE ENOUGH TO DO IT, Death said. WHEN SOULS ARE BOUND, THEY TIE THEIR FATES TOGETHER. AZIRAPHALE SHOULD HAVE DIED WHEN THE PART OF HIS SOUL YOU CARRY DIED.

Crowley wrapped his arms protectively around himself, and then realised what Death was saying. “The peach,” he said.

THE FRUIT FROM THE TREE OF LIFE, Death agreed. I CANNOT REAP AZIRAPHALE, AND SINCE A PART OF HIS SOUL IS BOUND TO YOURS AND THERE IS NO WAY TO DISENTANGLE THEM, I CANNOT REAP YOU EITHER.

“So…I’m immortal too? Completely?” The thought was staggering.

AS LONG AS AZIRAPHALE LIVES, YOU WILL LIVE, Death confirmed. AND AZIRAPHALE CANNOT DIE.

Crowley let that sink in, giddy with the prospect. “So…you’re going to send me back?” he asked, barely able to believe it.

YES, Death said. BUT FIRST I NEED YOU TO DO SOMETHING FOR ME.

That sounded a little ominous, but if doing whatever it was was going to put him and Aziraphale back together, _permanently_ —

“Anything,” Crowley said.

EXCELLENT, Death said. I NEED YOU TO CARRY A MESSAGE.

 

~~***~~

 

“ _Hell_ — _God_ —” Bert clung tighter to the sword he’d drawn from the scabbard of an unconscious demon he’d found slumped against one of the dark walls several dozen metres back. He assumed it was a demon, but it had just looked, rather disconcertingly, much like a regular person to him. Though with huge, rather beautiful black wings, of course, and a rather poor taste in tie patterns.

“How did this happen to me?” Bert muttered to himself, knowing he probably shouldn’t be making more noise than absolutely necessary but feeling like it was the only thing that was keeping him together just then. “I was such a normal person. I was getting _married_ —”

The book in his hand— _An Historical Narrative_ —hissed in warning and Bert held the sword inexpertly in front of him as he dodged into one of the nearby shadowy fissures in the rock.

Bert held his breath, waiting for footsteps to pass by. There was a moment of silence and then, with no warning, _An Historical Narrative_ started squirming in his hands, letting out a loud fanfare of trumpets.

“Shh, shh,” Bert said in alarm, holding the book flat to his chest and hoping it would shut up before it gave them away.

There was a sound from the corridor, rather like someone playing the harp. It seemed like a thoroughly non-hellish sound, and Bert decided _An Historical Narrative_ had probably given them away anyway, so he stepped out from the fissure, sword at the ready.

There was no one there. Instead, Bert’s eyes fell to the ground, and he was surprised to see a satin-bound book lying there, emanating the sound of harps. _An Historical Narrative_ made a trumpeting sound in return.

Bert cast his eyes around, but there didn’t seem to be any demons in the vicinity, so he moved forward and carefully picked the book up.

 _The Inner Workings of Angelicy_ read the spine. It immediately began making a worried cooing noise, and _An Historical Narrative_ growled in response, but it also just sounded rather worried.

“You two know each other?” Bert asked.

Both books made noises at the same time, so Bert took that as affirmative and stacked _Inner Workings_ under _An Historical Narrative_ , which he opened again so he could continue to navigate.

“Okay, you two can catch up once we’re out of here,” Bert said, adjusting his grip on his stolen sword as they resumed their escape from Hell.

 

~~***~~

 

“What sort of message?” Crowley asked, bewildered. “For whom?”

YOU MUST DELIVER IT TO THE ONE THEY CALL THE MORNINGSTAR, Death said.

Crowley froze. “ _L—Lucifer?_ You want me to carry a message…to _Lucifer?”_

YES, Death said.

“But… _why?”_ Crowley asked. “Why me?”

SINCE YOU WERE CLEARLY NOT PAYING ATTENTION EARLIER, Death said, a trifle testily, YOU ARE IMMORTAL. YOU WILL BE GOING BACK TO THE EARTH.

“But surely you could have…sent the message with some human about to be damned to Hell?” Crowley asked, perplexed. “Wouldn’t that be faster?”

THE MORTALS DO NOT REMEMBER ME, Death repeated. I HAVE TRIED SENDING MESSAGES WITH THEM, MANY TIMES, BUT THEY NEVER REMEMBER. AND THE SO-CALLED IMMORTALS, WHEN THEY DO COME TO ME, DO NOT RETURN TO YOUR WORLDS.

“Oh,” Crowley said. “Immortal lives—angels and demons, you mean?”

YES. I HAVE BEEN WAITING FOR SOMEONE TO DELIVER THIS MESSAGE FOR A VERY LONG TIME, Death said. WAITING FOR AN IMMORTAL WHO WILL DIE AND BE ABLE TO RETURN.

“Yeah, I imagine that’s kind of rare,” Crowley said, scratching nervously at his ear.

THE MOST RARE, Death said.

“Er,” Crowley said, “How long did you say you’ve been waiting to deliver this message for?”

SINCE THE BEGINNING, Death said. I BELIEVE THAT’S SIX THOUSAND OF YOUR YEARS.

“Six _thousand_ —”

THIS MESSAGE IS VERY IMPORTANT, Death said. YOU WILL CARRY IT. It was not a question.

Crowley sighed, remembering what was at stake here. “Yeah, okay. I’ll get it to Lucifer. What is it? Should I write it down?”

IT IS NOT LONG, Death said. TELL HIM THAT ISHTYR FORGIVES HIM.

Crowley blinked at him. “Ishtyr?” The name sounded vaguely familiar to him, but he couldn’t place it. “Who’s that?”

ME, Death said simply. HE WILL KNOW ME BY THAT NAME. TELL HIM THAT I AM NOW DEATH, AND THAT I FORGIVE HIM.

Crowley opened his mouth to ask why Death would be forgiving Lucifer for something, and decided he really didn’t want to know.

“Yeah, okay,” he said. Something else was occurring to him. “When you send me back, can you reverse that spell that keeps draining me of my powers? Or turn me back into my human shape or something?”

I HAVE MANY POWERS, Death said, BUT I DO NOT HAVE THE POWER TO UNDO THAT SPELL COMPLETELY. I WILL RETURN ENOUGH OF YOUR POWER TO YOU TO HEAL YOU, THOUGH, SO YOU DO NOT SIMPLY RETURN HERE IMMEDIATELY. AND YOUR MIND WILL BE YOUR OWN AGAIN, SO YOU MAY DELIVER MY MESSAGE, BUT I CANNOT DO ANYTHING MORE.

“Thanks, that’ll be enough, I hope,” Crowley said. “Anything else?”

YES, Death said. YOU WILL FIND THIS OUT SOON ENOUGH, I THINK, BUT I DOUBT THE BIG MAN WILL TAKE THE TIME TO EXPLAIN IT TO YOU, SO I’LL LET YOU IN ON OUR LITTLE SECRET A LITTLE EARLY, HUH?

“Secret?” Crowley repeated, baffled. And what did God have to do with all of this?

A VERY WELL-KEPT SECRET, Death said, sounding rather pleased about it, AND ONE THE FATE OF THE ENTIRE UNIVERSE HAS HINGED ON. BUT YOU WILL KNOW SOON ENOUGH, SO LET ME EXPLAIN.

“Explain what?” Crowley asked, a nervous feeling in his stomach.

YOU ARE NOT AN ORDINARY ANGEL, Death said by way of preface. YOU NEVER HAVE BEEN.

And then Death explained.

 

~~***~~

 

The empty, aching feeling in Aziraphale’s chest wasn’t fading, and he knew Crowley was gone.

Really, properly, _permanently_ gone.

He was lightheaded with the realisation, and could barely convince himself to continue drawing breaths, each one grating. Crowley was dead. He was dead and Aziraphale was alone. In Hell.

The fragment of the Ten Commandments was still in his satchel, just a useless weight now. It didn’t matter anymore. Nothing mattered.

Aziraphale spent another dozen frantic heartbeats staring sightlessly down at the rock beneath him, and then he slowly pulled himself to his feet, drawing the sword up with him. He redoubled his grip on the hilt.

Crowley was dead, and Aziraphale could still feel his own immortality, holding him fast to this world. If Crowley was dead, Aziraphale thought bleakly, a wall of emotion beginning to overwhelm him, then he saw no point in continuing to live without him. In fact, he saw no point in leaving Hell at all. Bert would have made it back to safety by now, and he would go back to Midfarthing and marry Donnie and live a happy life and he would be fine. There was no one else depending on Aziraphale, no other loose ends to tie up. To most of the world, he was already dead.

Aziraphale had watched his own death slowly kill Crowley, and did not think he could go through that himself. And what was the point of trying? Crowley had been powerless when he’d died, which meant he wouldn’t be coming back, or be whisked off to some other place like Aziraphale had been.

And Aziraphale did not wish to live another minute with this hole in his chest; after all they had gone through to render him immortal and get him back to Earth, he would forfeit his life. He knew if he went back up to the bookshop Bert would try to stop him, but making this choice was his right. He had made Crowley his entire life, and maybe Crowley wouldn’t have wanted him to end it on his account, but Crowley wasn’t here anymore.

Aziraphale would have carried out the deed himself, except he’d eaten that bloody peach and didn’t know if it was even possible for him to die, or if he had sentenced himself to a life of isolation and grief. He didn’t want this immortality, not anymore, not if it meant an eternity without Crowley. And if anyone, anywhere, knew how to kill someone who had eaten from the Tree of Life, it was Hell’s top lieutenants.

He had failed Crowley, in the end. Ever since his Fall, at every turn Aziraphale had found himself falling short in his attempts to help or save Crowley, and here he was again, at the last and latest in a long line of failures. And not only had he failed to save Crowley as he’d promised he would, but he'd failed both Crowley and himself in another way, because Crowley had been subjected to the one thing Aziraphale had begged Crowley to spare _him_ from, when his own end had been drawing near: Crowley had died alone.

Anger was coursing through Aziraphale now, and his grip redoubled on the sword in his hand. Hell’s finest might need some incentive to kill him, and he was thinking he might be able to provide some and take out a few demons in the process. Maybe he could find that demon with the streak of grey in his hair while he was at it, and kill him with exceptional slowness.

Aziraphale staggered away from the door to Hell’s vault, going to look for any demons stupid enough to stand in his way. Maybe one of them would get lucky and kill him.

The acid burning in his stomach was consuming him so completely that he didn’t notice when something sparked to life deep in his core, or when a few tongues of flame started licking their way along the blade of his sword.


	22. The Ten Commandments

Crowley exploded through the front doors of the Easter Animal Hospital, slithering at top speed out onto the pavement. He had only dim memories of the route Aziraphale had taken on the way there, but he thought he’d be able to work it out once he saw a few road signs. They couldn’t be far from Soho.

A woman screamed nearby as Crowley shot around her foot, and he heard the doors of the hospital banging open behind him as the veterinarians he’d just escaped from scrambled to follow him, shouting warnings to the passersby.

Crowley glanced down the street and darted off the pavement, slithering across the rough surface of the road as quickly as he could. Death had healed the gash that had killed him, and Crowley picked up speed as he shook off the last traces of the sedative in his system.

Crowley shot onto the pavement on the other side of the road, enticing another round of shouts and screams and only narrowly avoiding the heel of someone trying to step on him.

“Exxxcussse you,” Crowley hissed.

The information Death had given him was heavy in his head, and Crowley turned it over in his mind, still somewhat in shock, as he continued darting around feet and across streets, headed back to Aziraphale’s Soho bookshop.

 

~~***~~

 

Aziraphale ran another demon through and paused, chest heaving and tears glinting on his cheeks. There were five of them rushing him now, and he decided this was as good of a way to go as any.

He held his hands up, holding his sword loosely. “I surrender.” His voice sounded raspy and hoarse even to his own ears.

The demons skidded to surprised and suspicious halts a few metres away.

“I surrender,” Aziraphale repeated, louder. He had to swallow before he could continue, throat tight. “Take me as your prisoner, please. Kill me if you can. It might be tricky but I trust you’ll find a way.” He slowly lowered his hands and tossed his sword to the ground with a clatter. He’d had enough of killing. He just wanted someone to repay the favour.

Three of the demons moved forward, one of them grabbing onto his arms and wrestling them behind his back. Aziraphale let him, choking on a broken sob. One of the other demons scooped up his sword and looked at it suspiciously.

“Please, just kill me,” Aziraphale begged, feeling fresh tears roll down his cheeks. “That’s all I ask.”

“Bring him with,” one of the demons ordered, and they began pushing Aziraphale forward. He went willingly. The hole in his chest had been slowly shrinking, and he knew that his soul must be rejecting the part of himself that Crowley had given him, overrunning or expelling it, erasing any connection to the part that had died like a plant shedding shrivelled leaves. He was losing the last piece of Crowley he had left, and had never wanted to die more.

 

~~***~~

 

Crowley slid to a halt in front of the bookshop door, rearing up and trying to reach the knob with his head. He could hear the wheels of the BBC broadcasting van that had been following him for the last three streets screeching around the corner, and knew that the police car wasn’t far behind it. Crowley grabbed at the doorknob with his jaws and managed to turn it with a twist of his head. The door fell open and Crowley toppled in after it.

“Who—what—Crowley!” said a surprised voice.

Once Crowley had hastily pushed the door shut with his head, he turned to see Bert staring at him from behind the bookshop counter, looking very shell-shocked and with what appeared to be a glass of brandy in his hand. Sitting next to him on the counter were two books and what looked like a sword.

“Where’sss Aziraphale?” Crowley demanded, slithering over and skirting the dead corporation of the demon he’d bitten earlier.

“Hey, you’re you again!” Bert exclaimed. “Aziraphale said—weren’t you injured?”

“Got over it,” Crowley dismissed quickly, slithering closer. “Tell me, where—”

He had moved far enough forward, and now saw around the edge of one of the bookcases what was unmistakably a portal to Hell in the back wall of Aziraphale’s bookshop.

Bert raised a shaking hand and pointed towards it. “He’s in there—said he’d be coming back—”

Crowley made for the portal.

Bert staggered off his stool and started towards him. “No, you can’t, it’s _Hell_ —”

“I’ll be back,” Crowley told him, and slithered into the portal.

 

~~***~~

 

“I am going home,” Bert told his glass of brandy a few minutes after Crowley too had vanished into the portal. “I am going home, and I am never leaving again, and I’m going to marry that cranky, cat-loving, amazing woman.”

 _Inner Workings_ made a soothing cooing noise, but Bert decided it was probably directed at the hellish book next to it. Sentient books. _God_.

“Adventures are all fun and games until someone gets dragged to Hell,” Bert told his brandy in a very controlled voice. “No more adventures. _Ever_.”

 _An Historical Narrative_ shifted closer to the heavenly book, entwining their pages further.

Bert sighed and set down his brandy. “Get a room, you two,” he told them, and _Inner Workings_ at least had the good grace to seep out an embarrassed smell of crushed grass.

The door to the bookshop banged open and a half-dozen people strode in like they owned the place. One of them was dressed in a sharp business suit, but the rest were wearing what appeared to be actual armour, gleaming silver and gold. From that alone, Bert decided they likely weren’t human, and they seemed more disciplined than the demons he’d seen so far.

“The treacherous demon, where is he?” snapped the woman in the sharp suit as she strode into the bookshop, casting the body on the floor half a glance.

“Er, who?” asked Bert.

“The traitor Redeemed,” she snapped, as though this was clearer. “The false angel. The serpent, the one slithering through the streets on your colourful screens.”

“Ah,” said Bert, and then decided playing dumb was only going to get him killed, and he’d had a rather recent epiphany of how much he wanted to live, so he pointed nervously towards the dark hole in the bookshop’s wall. “Through there?”

The woman—an angel, he thought—stepped forward and followed his gesture with her gaze. Her mouth thinned into a line. “He’s escaped back into Hell,” she barked, drawing a long white sword from her belt. Bert casually shifted his free hand to the sword he’d set on the counter.

“With me,” she said, and strode into the portal. The other angels followed her, and silence fell over the bookshop again.

Bert slowly removed his hand from the hilt of the sword and took another long drink of brandy. “Marrying her straight away.”

 

~~***~~

 

“ _I_ captured him,” insisted the demon with the slightly mangy hair, voice echoing slightly in the rock cavern. “ _I_ get to kill him.”

“He’s an associate of the Returned,” the head of the other party of demons protested, this one a dark-skinned woman with wings so perfectly preened they would have made Crowley green with envy.

 _Crowley_.

Aziraphale squeezed his eyes closed and tried to shut off his emotions, attempting to push down all the pain and close himself off. He didn’t think he would be able to handle it otherwise. He was teetering on the brink of breaking down as it was, and knew that once he started grieving he wouldn’t be able to stop. He could tell he was still in shock, still processing the loss, and was hopeful he might be able to extend that phase as long as possible, before the real pain set in.

“I won’t let you kill him,” the female demon continued harshly. “We might need him. He might know something.”

“He used to be an _angel_ , and I _will_ kill him,” the other demon argued back, and Aziraphale wished one of them would just get on with it already. It might take a couple of tries, so the sooner they started the better. Even if they just stabbed him a little, at least then he’d have some other pain to preoccupy himself with.

“Do you really want to stay here forever, Malik?” the female demon hissed. “Don’t be stupid.”

“I’m not a _traitor_ like you,” the other demon—Malik—growled. “Are you so quick to forget how they cast us from Heaven? Beelzebub will hear about this—”

The sounds of loud talking came from nearby and a moment later a small crowd of demons rounded the corner of one of the archways leading into the cavern, the first two holding something between them. Aziraphale didn’t raise his head, wrists locked above him, staring down at the floor, throat tight. Something fluttered in him and he did his best to ignore it, trying to just dull the searing emptiness in his chest.

“Malik!” one of the demons near the front of the crowd of newcomers said. “The traitor himself!”

And they cast a long, iridescent black serpent to the floor of the cavern.

“Mannersss,” hissed a very familiar voice.

Aziraphale’s head snapped up, shock flooding his system for the second time in an hour. He stared speechlessly at where Crowley was untangling himself on the floor of the cavern, as plain as day.

Aziraphale dug past the wall he’d been trying to shove his emotions behind, scrambling among them for any scrap of Crowley. And there it was, faint but growing brighter, a burning light deep in his soul that said _I am Crowley and I am alive_.

Aziraphale’s breath caught in his throat and he struggled to speak, just wheezing in shock and disbelief, wrists flexing in their chains as he tried to escape his bonds for the first time. He couldn’t form any words on his lips, but Crowley didn’t seem to need to hear any. His serpentine head swivelled around to Aziraphale almost immediately, and their eyes met.

“Sssorry for the wait, angel,” Crowley hissed, and then one of the demons grabbed him from behind the neck, half-lifting him off the ground with one hand. Crowley hissed in pain and Aziraphale felt a flash of true anger. He began pulling harder at his shackles, but they were metal and seemed very securely attached to the rock wall behind him.

“Shall we execute him?” asked the demon who was holding Crowley, with altogether too much relish for Aziraphale’s liking.

“No!” the female demon with the well-preened wings said, drawing her sword. Immediately half of the crowd of demons who’d entered with Crowley drew their swords too. Crowley made an admirable attempt to thrash out of the grip of the demon holding him, and Aziraphale yanked hard at his shackles, but neither of them managed to break free. Aziraphale felt something warm roll down his forearm, wrists raw.

“Let him go!” the female demon demanded.

“Should we take him to Beelzebub?” one of the other demons suggested. “Or Lucifer?”

“Think for yourselves for a minute, you idiots!” the female demon snapped.

“I’d lisssten to her if I were you,” Crowley suggested, only earning himself a sharp shaking by the demon holding him. It must have hurt quite a lot, because he seemed to be having trouble keeping his head up.

“Shut up, traitor,” the demon hissed.

Aziraphale finally found his voice and said, hoarsely, “Crowley.”

Crowley’s head twitched over towards him immediately, and Aziraphale forced his gaze from Crowley’s beautiful, impossible presence to his satchel, which the demons had thrown onto the floor only a few metres away from him, along with the unflaming sword. Aziraphale moved his gaze back to Crowley, and saw him looking at the satchel now too; he must have received the message.

“We follow Lucifer, not you!” one of the demons shouted, and several others pitched in their opinions. Crowley tried to squirm free again, but the demon holding him grabbed on with his other hand, a bit further down Crowley’s body. This actually seemed to support him a little better, and Crowley calmed.

At the same moment, about half of the demons grew very still, some of them with their heads half-cocked, as though listening to something. And then they all looked in the direction of one of the other archways.

“—say let’s kill him!” one of the demons finished loudly, evidently having not picked up on what the others were sensing, and that was when all hell broke loose.

Or, more accurately, a small squadron of Heaven broke loose.

A half-dozen angels burst through the archway, swords flashing, armour gleaming, wings blindingly white, and every demon in the room scattered.

“With me!” Malik shouted and lurched towards the angels, drawing his sword.

Several of the demons rallied behind him and the room exploded into fighting, the clang of swords on swords filling the cavern, black and white wings unfurling across the space.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale shouted as he saw Crowley trying to thrash free of the demon holding him. The demon had drawn his sword and looked like he intended on cutting Crowley’s head off. Aziraphale yanked hard on the manacles holding him, but only succeeded in nearly breaking his thumb.

An angel flashed between Aziraphale and Crowley, and his view was filled with a wall of white feathers.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale shouted again, fear sinking icy claws into him.

When he had a clear line of sight again, Crowley was nowhere to be seen and the demon was flat on his back, a sword protruding from his chest.

Aziraphale yanked hard on his manacles again, and this time actually did feel his thumb break as one hand slipped free. Aziraphale gasped with the pain of it, but he was still chained by one wrist. “Crowley!” he shouted.

There was a blur of motion to his side and Aziraphale twisted hopefully, but it was the female demon from earlier. Aziraphale recoiled automatically, but she only reached up towards his remaining manacle. She didn’t actually touch it, but he felt it unlock. He looked at her in surprise.

“Get out of here,” she said, and then she was gone, black wings flashing as she disappeared into the melee.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale called again, a little less loudly, cradling his broken hand. He turned to where the demons had discarded his satchel and sword just in time to see Crowley slither to a halt beside them. Aziraphale staggered over to him, side blazing as he remembered dimly that he was still injured.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said breathlessly, falling to his knees beside the satchel where Crowley had buried his head, slowly dragging out the piece of the Ten Commandments. Aziraphale cautiously reached out his uninjured hand and touched Crowley along the back. His scales were smooth and completely unmarked under Aziraphale’s fingers, and Aziraphale had no idea how he could be here and alive right now. He would have bundled Crowley into his arms then and there except a flurry of sparks exploded from right beside them as two swords met, and Aziraphale flinched away.

Crowley nudged the fragment of the Ten Commandments towards him. “Do the ssspell quick,” Crowley urged.

Aziraphale would have been fine just scooping Crowley up and legging it as they were, but he didn’t feel like arguing. He fished around in his pocket and retrieved the stub of chalk he’d stuffed in there earlier, glancing over his shoulder to make sure no one in the melee was paying them much mind. Using his unbroken hand, Aziraphale hastily drew the sigil on the floor of the cavern—it was a relatively small one, less than half a metre across.

Then he drew a second circle, this one just the outline of the shape, and connected the two with a single line. Crowley slithered into the circle and Aziraphale set the fragment of the Ten Commandments on the sigil, glancing briefly over his shoulder again.

“ _Animach lez bezoat alkoshot myne azail, lif-touk, vilafoech et kolatschum alo shauk ve et zefolateem_ ,” Aziraphale said, reciting the spell from memory. He locked eyes with Crowley. “ _Au le theyrzome peohehoun pougamon fayr._ ”

The stone fragment began to glow, and then Crowley exploded into Light.

Aziraphale fell backwards in surprise and scrambled to his feet as Crowley abruptly shifted back into human form. He was wearing the same suit he’d had on in Eden, complete with the scarf Aziraphale had given him, and he looked a little surprised. Crowley’s eyes, as beautiful and golden as they’d ever been, met Aziraphale’s shocked ones.

A great well of emotion rose up in Aziraphale at the sight of the friend he thought he’d lost forever, and now in a shape he had never expected to see again, and he stepped forward and threw his arms around Crowley.

“Oh, God, _Crowley_ …” Aziraphale pulled his friend close and buried his face in the crook of Crowley’s shoulder, finally allowing himself to feel the emotions he’d been holding at bay. He didn’t care that they were still trapped in Hell, or that a small battle was being waged just metres away—Crowley was safe here, in his arms, and he was never going to let him go. So he pulled him closer instead, eyes squeezed shut as he just drank in his friend’s proximity, hardly able to believe the evidence of his senses. Crowley was beginning to glow quite brightly, though, and even through Aziraphale’s closed eyelids he could see that he was growing brighter still.

After a moment Aziraphale registered that Crowley was only partially returning his embrace, and he pulled back, sniffling, wondering if something was wrong.

Crowley put a hand on his shoulder, and it took Aziraphale a moment to realise that he was steadying himself. Crowley was impossibly bright, power radiating off him in waves. His wings manifested smoothly behind him, white and beautiful, shedding power and light like water.

“C—Crowley?” Aziraphale whispered, keeping his hands on Crowley’s shoulders, fingers twined in his scarf. Crowley didn’t seem to be looking at anything in particular, eyes wide and fixed on some point over Aziraphale’s shoulder.

The angels and demons who’d been fighting were slowing down, the sounds of battle falling quiet as Crowley grew brighter and brighter and _brighter_.

Crowley still had his hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder, and Aziraphale moved one of his own hands to grab onto Crowley’s arm as the unFallen angel continued to increase in incandescence.

The other angels were cowering now, and the demons that had remained to fight—it looked like a great deal of them had had the good sense to flee—were beginning to scream as they vaporised under the sheer presence of so much divinity. As a human, Aziraphale thought he should probably be cowering on the ground with his eyes bleeding, but instead he just clung onto Crowley’s hand and collar as raw, bright power crashed over him in waves. Aziraphale gazed at his friend in shock, Crowley’s light reflecting off his eyes.

The dark rock of the cavern around them started to disintegrate as, to Aziraphale’s intense disbelief, a second set of white wings, as brilliant as the first, appeared over Crowley’s shoulders.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale whispered, but his voice was lost as everything remotely demonic within a hundred metres vaporised. Light was everywhere, Crowley burning brighter than the sun and growing brighter still.

And _then_ , a third set of wings melted into view behind him, sending dazzling arcs of rainbow light flashing through the cavern, which was now twice its previous size and growing in diameter.

The six wings of a seraph.

Aziraphale stared at Crowley, brain refusing to process what he was seeing. There was Light everywhere, and he could feel it inside of himself too, the burning Light of raw divine power, but _so much more_ than Aziraphale had ever felt before. He’d never seen a seraph power all the way up like this. It was like containing the sun in a jar, and Aziraphale felt suddenly certain that, if Crowley actually turned his mind to a task, he would be nigh on unstoppable. He could likely disintegrate all of Hell in an afternoon. He could turn Glastonbury Tor into Mount Everest, or wipe out a city.

It must have been intoxicating, that much power, but also…distancing. Crowley was no longer himself; he was a star, and Aziraphale must have been nothing more than a comet to him, crashing soundlessly into his surface.

Aziraphale reached out and put his uninjured hand on Crowley’s cheek. He expected his friend’s skin to be burning hot, but instead he was cool, almost like marble.

“Crowley?” he asked, voice small even to his own ears and shot through with fear. He didn’t want Crowley to be an untouchable star. “My dear?”

A little to his surprise, Crowley turned his head towards him, but his eyes were still wide and distant. It seemed like he was holding galaxies in them. He was still burning with Light, and Aziraphale saw that the raw power was overwhelming him.

“I’m here, my dear,” Aziraphale told him, adjusting his hand slightly on Crowley’s cheek. “Focus on me.”

Crowley blinked at him, slowly, and his grip tightened on Aziraphale’s shoulder. And, ever so slightly, the distant look began to leave his eyes.

“That’s it,” Aziraphale said encouragingly, and then he felt Crowley’s entire attention shift to him all at once.

Crowley blinked and staggered, and his eyes were focussing properly now, fixing themselves on Aziraphale.

“Zira,” he rasped, voice hoarse.

There was a loud cracking noise, and they both glanced up to see that the ceiling, which had receded to almost twice its previous height, was beginning to crumble and fall in on them.

“We should get out of here,” Crowley said, and took Aziraphale’s hand.

Aziraphale gasped as Crowley’s fingers brushed his broken thumb, and he felt Crowley’s attention rivet itself back on him.

Aziraphale opened his mouth to apologise, but before he could form the words a wave of power crashed over him. It was clear Crowley was trying to be gentle, but it hit Aziraphale so hard it took his breath away. Every inch of pain in his body vaporised in an instant, though, and he felt his side stitch itself back together as his thumb popped back into its socket.

“S—sorry,” Crowley said, and reached down to pick up the satchel. Aziraphale took it from him numbly, tucking the fragment of the Ten Commandments back inside, and Crowley reached down for the sword next.

When Aziraphale had been a cherub, it had taken a not-insignificant amount of concentration to light it. The moment Crowley’s fingertips brushed the grip, the blade exploded into flames. They were bright white and blazing, but didn’t appear to give off any heat, which was a good thing, because they were almost a metre high.

“Whoa,” Crowley said, and after a moment of him staring at it, the flames halved in height.

Then Crowley took Aziraphale’s hand and led him out of the cavern. There were no demons in sight and the angels were all still cowering on the floor, wings wrapped around their corporations to protect them.

Crowley had clearly been intending on leaving via the same corridor he’d entered through, but when he got within fifty metres it vaporised. Crowley paused, and the flames on the sword jumped higher again.

“This is…hard to get a grip on,” Crowley said, looking up into the darkness. He started forward again and Aziraphale followed him, holding onto Crowley’s hand tightly.

Crowley started upwards, and he seemed to get the hang of selectively vaporising things, because he managed to convince the floor of the passage to continue to exist, though the walls and every other physical barrier in a quarter mile radius had long since evaporated.

Few demons were stupid enough to remain in the path of the swath of destruction Crowley was wreaking, though as they were blazing through the second circle they found their way blocked by three archdemons, black wings spread behind them. This might have been more intimidating if they’d been _proper_ archdemons; God had only ever made seven archangels, and none of them had Fallen. The archdemons, though they styled themselves that way, were one step down on the hierarchy, one half of the paired powers. Which meant they only had a single set of wings, and one of them started smoking alarmingly before Aziraphale even noticed they were there.

After a moment they seemed to realise Crowley wasn’t going to be reasoned with and hastily dodged out of the way. One of them froze where he stood, looking absolutely terrified, and Aziraphale realised after a moment that Crowley was keeping him in place.

“Belial,” Crowley said calmly, walking over to the archdemon. Crowley must have been making an extra effort to not vaporise him, but Belial started smoking a little anyway. Aziraphale remembered Crowley telling him about the fearsome archdemons and suddenly found the idea that Crowley could have ever been frightened of this creature laughable.

“Spare me,” Belial begged, wings trembling as he dropped to his knees.

“Okay,” Crowley said, coming to a stop in front of him.

Belial, clearly about to continue grovelling, paused. He half-looked up at Crowley, but he must not have been able to handle the raw Light, because his eyes didn’t make it very far. “Sorry?”

“I’ll spare you,” Crowley said. “But I want you to take a message to Lucifer. Can you do that?”

“Anything,” Belial said, back to grovelling.

“I will know if you do not deliver the message,” Crowley said, and Aziraphale didn’t think he was trying to sound threatening but his voice was heavy with raw power. “So do please deliver it.”

“Of course, my liege,” Belial said.

Crowley snorted, and Belial started smoking more profusely.

“Tell Lucifer this, word for word: Ishtyr is Death, and he forgives him.”

Belial frowned. “What’s that mean?”

“He will understand,” Crowley said vaguely. “Now deliver it.”

Aziraphale looked at Crowley in confusion, but Crowley only waved the archdemon away, and he scrambled to his feet and bolted.

“Do you think he’ll take the message?” Crowley asked a few moments later, as they continued searing their way to the surface.

“I don’t think he’d dare not,” Aziraphale said carefully.

There was a burst of light from above them, and all of a sudden Crowley and Aziraphale were standing in a field with a couple of very surprised sheep staring at them from nearby.

The small star’s worth of power Crowley had been emitting faded quickly, and Aziraphale glanced over at him in worry, redoubling his grip on Crowley’s hand. Crowley had closed his eyes, and Aziraphale watched as the outlines of his three sets of wings slowly melted from view. And then the last of the divine light faded and it was just Crowley, standing in a field.

Aziraphale stepped forward and wrapped his arms around his friend again, because he hadn’t got to do it properly before. Crowley returned the gesture this time, slowly at first and then all at once, pulling Aziraphale close.

“Oh, _God_ , Crowley, what is even happening?” Aziraphale asked, bunching his hands in the back of Crowley’s suit jacket and struggling to accept his friend’s solid, physical presence. “You—I thought you’d _died_ —I _felt_ you die—”

“I…er, I did,” Crowley said, and though Aziraphale wanted to continue just holding him close, there was no way he was just letting Crowley say something like that. Aziraphale pulled back, keeping his hands on Crowley’s shoulders.

“You _what?”_

“I, er, died,” Crowley said, looking suddenly a little embarrassed about it. “But it turns out…well…I talked to Death, see—”

“The horseman?” Aziraphale asked in surprise.

Crowley nodded. “Used to be an angel, too, actually. But it turns out…you remember that spell we used, the one where I gave you a bit of my soul?”

Aziraphale frowned at him in puzzlement. “Yes?”

“Well,” Crowley said, looking slightly nervous about what he was going to say next, “it, er, turns out that you can’t just give away part of your soul without, er, getting an equal piece in return.”

Aziraphale stared at him, piecing that together. “ _You_ have a piece of _my_ soul?”

Crowley nodded, apparently waiting for Aziraphale’s reaction.

“And that…saved you?” Aziraphale asked.

“It, er, became immortal when you ate the peach,” Crowley explained. “And since apparently souls are fluid, everything got sort of mixed together, and there was no way for Death to separate my soul from yours, so he couldn’t, er, reap me.”

Aziraphale stared at him. “You’re saying that you’re now immortal _because I’m immortal?”_

“Something like that,” Crowley said, a little evasively. “Sorry, I know that wasn’t our intention—”

“Never mind whatever our _intention_ was,” Aziraphale said, and pulled Crowley into another hug because he looked worried about it, the dear. “You’re alive and that’s all I care about.”

Crowley relaxed into the embrace. “You really don’t mind? I did sort of steal part of your soul.”

“I’m certain you’ll take good care of it,” Aziraphale said, pulling away again so he could pat Crowley reassuringly on the shoulder. “Really, my dear, you’re welcome to it.”

Crowley gave him a smile that was so genuine and hopeful that Aziraphale patted him again on the shoulder. He thought he might do something foolish if Crowley kept looking at him like that, so he quickly turned and surveyed their surroundings.

“Any idea where we are?”

Crowley sniffled and turned, looking out over the field with him. “Not London, that’s for sure.”

“Looks like southern England, maybe?” Aziraphale suggested. “Not hilly enough for Scotland.”

Crowley shrugged assent and reached into his pocket. “You don’t happen to have my mobile in the bag, do you?” he asked.

Aziraphale poked through the satchel, but it was empty apart from the fragment of the Ten Commandments. He must have left the mobile at the bookshop or in the Bentley. “No, sorry.”

They looked at each other for a second, and then Crowley grinned and miracled a new mobile into his hand.

“ _God_ , it’s handy to be able to do that again,” Crowley said, and dialled the bookshop from memory.

Aziraphale watched him as he did it, just soaking in every line of Crowley’s human face and thinking that he’d missed it more than he probably had a right to.

Crowley took a few steps away as the mobile rang, and he stumbled a bit on the uneven ground. Aziraphale was at his side instantly, worry flashing through him, but Crowley waved away his concern.

“Just—not used to having legs again is all,” he explained, and then raised a hand and adjusted his grip on the mobile. “Hallo, Bert, it’s Crowley,” he said. “We’re out of Hell, but appear to be a little lost…oh, and I’m not a snake anymore…yeah. Just wanted to fill you in.”

Aziraphale motioned that he wanted to talk to Bert.

“Hang on, Bert, Zira wants to talk to you…” Crowley handed the mobile to Aziraphale.

“Hi Bert,” Aziraphale said. “Listen, you’re going to want to close that portal to Hell in the bookshop when you have a spare moment—”


	23. The Seventh Seraph

“Okay,” Aziraphale said once they were sitting on a train headed back towards London, the English countryside rolling past the window, “explain the…seraph bit.”

Crowley took a deep breath and thought back, wondering where to begin. “So, according to Death, I’m the seventh seraph.”

Aziraphale blinked at him. “There are only six seraphim.”

“Apparently there are seven,” Crowley said; he’d thought the same himself. “You know how Father likes making things in sevens. Seven days of Creation, seven archangels, seven this, seven that—he didn’t make _anything_ in sixes apart from the seraphim.”

“So…seven,” Aziraphale said.

“Yeah,” Crowley said heavily. “Well, the way Death explained it:

HE MADE THE SERAPHIM LAST, THE FINAL CHOIR OF ANGELS. HE MADE SIX, AND THE LAST WAS CALLED VENUS. SHE WAS NAMED AFTER THE MORNING STAR.

“The Morningstar,” Crowley repeated. “Lucifer.”

Death nodded. THE YOUNGEST. OR, RATHER, THE YOUNGEST YET. AFTER HE HAD MADE VENUS, HE TOOK A BRIEF BREAK BEFORE STARTING ON THE SEVENTH, THE LAST ANGEL HE WOULD EVER CREATE.

“I thought God was supposed to rest _after_ the work was done.”

HE RESTS WHENEVER HE PLEASES, Death said, a trifle testily. HE WAS ENSURING THE UNIVERSE WASN’T GOING TO IMPLODE OR SOMETHING.

“Or something.”

I WAS NOT THERE, Death said. I WAS BUSY. BUT THIS IS WHAT HE HAS TOLD ME.

“You’ve talked to God?”

HE IS THE ONLY ONE I CAN TALK TO WHO EVER TALKS BACK, Death said. I HAVE MANY ONE-TIME ACQUAINTANCES.

“Ah.”

ANYWAY, Death said, THE ANGELS WERE EXPLORING THE HEAVENS AND THE EARTH, AND TESTING THE LIMITS OF THEIR POWERS. WE WERE ALL SO YOUNG.

“We? You were an angel?”

Death shifted one of his veils and a pair of white wings shimmered into view behind him. They were beautiful, and each feather sparkled with stars.

MY NAME WAS ISHTYR, Death said. I WAS A PRINCIPALITY, AND VENUS WAS MY BEST FRIEND.

“You were friends with _Lucifer?”_

SHE WAS NOT YET LUCIFER, Death said. SHE WOULD NOT ADOPT THAT NAME UNTIL LATER. AND THE CHOIRS, THOUGH THEY EXISTED, DID NOT DIVIDE THE ANGELS. THERE WAS NO HIERARCHY; EVERY ANGEL WAS EQUAL IN THE EYES OF THE LORD, REGARDLESS OF HOW MUCH POWER HE HAD GIVEN TO THAT ANGEL.

“I don’t remember that,” Crowley said.

NO, Death agreed. YOU WOULD NOT. I’M GETTING THERE. AS I SAID, THE ANGELS WERE TESTING THE LIMITS OF THEIR POWERS. VENUS AND I WERE VERY CLOSE. WE DESIGNED A SIGIL THAT WOULD ALLOW TWO SOULS TO SHARE A SINGLE CORPORATION.

“Oh,” Crowley said, suddenly remembering why the names Venus and Ishtyr had sounded familiar. “ _The binding spell_. From the library. You—hang on—you _died_.”

I DID, Death said. I WAS THE FIRST CREATURE IN EXISTENCE TO DIE. IT WAS AN ACCIDENT. MORTALITY WAS CREATED THAT DAY.

Crowley blinked at him in shock.

VENUS WAS HELD RESPONSIBLE. SHE WAS MORE POWERFUL THAN I, AND WHEN HER CORPORATION COULDN’T HOLD US BOTH ANYMORE, HER SOUL OVERWHELMED MINE.

“She killed you,” Crowley said. “Lucifer killed you.”

IT WAS NOT ADAM AND EVE WHO INVENTED SIN, Death said. IT WAS VENUS. SHE WAS MEANT TO BRING LIGHT, BUT INSTEAD SHE BROUGHT DARKNESS.

GOD HAD MEANT THE WORLD TO LIVE WITHOUT SIN, Death continued, BUT HE GAVE HIS CREATURES FREE WILL, AND SIN WAS CREATED ANYWAY. GOD FORGAVE VENUS, BUT SHE DID NOT FORGIVE HERSELF. SHE WAS DISTRAUGHT. NO ONE HAD EVER DIED BEFORE. NO ONE KNEW HOW TO HANDLE THE SITUATION. SHE SINGLE-HANDEDLY DOOMED THE WORLD. YOU CANNOT UNINVENT MORTALITY.

“The Fall,” Crowley said, tracing this narrative to its natural conclusion with a shiver.

VENUS ASKED GOD TO MAKE ME IMMORTAL AGAIN. HE COULDN’T RETURN ME WITHOUT REMAKING ME, BUT HE GRANTED HER WISH. HE FORMED ME INTO WHO I AM NOW, THE KEEPER OF MORTALITY. VENUS’S CORPORATION WAS DESTROYED, SO SHE TOOK MINE AND CHANGED HER NAME.

“To Lucifer.”

YES. BRINGING LIGHT TO THE ANGELS, BUT A DIFFERENT SORT OF LIGHT. SHE LOST HER FAITH IN GOD WHEN HE COULDN’T BRING ME BACK. SHE BEGAN TO DOUBT. AS LUCIFER, HE INSTILLED THAT DISCONTENT IN OTHERS. HALF OF HEAVEN FELL.

“I never knew all this.”

FEW PEOPLE DO. IT WAS VERY EARLY, AND ONLY A FEW TEXTS WERE WRITTEN IN THAT TIME. QUITE A FEW BY A FRIEND OF YOURS, ACTUALLY.

Crowley frowned. “Who, Harahel?”

Death laughed. THE LIBRARIAN? NO. AZIRAPHALE.

Crowley blinked. “ _Aziraphale?_ ”

HE SINGLE-HANDEDLY INVENTED BOOKS, AS I RECALL, Death said. BUT AS I WAS SAYING: ONCE MORTALITY HAD BEEN INVENTED, THERE WAS NO WAY FOR GOD’S PERFECT WORLD TO EXIST ANYMORE. ALL THINGS ENDED IN DEATH, AND THERE WAS NO WAY TO AVOID THE FALL WITHOUT REMOVING FREE WILL. HE HAD NOT EVEN MADE HUMANITY YET, BUT THEY WERE DOOMED FROM THE START.

“So what’s this got to do with me?” Crowley asked, wondering if this ought to make him feel better about having been the one to tempt Eve.

THE UNIVERSE WAS DOOMED, Death said, BUT GOD HAD ONE LAST ANGEL TO MAKE.

“The seventh seraph.”

YES. YOU.

There was an extremely long pause.

_“Me?”_

HE HID YOU AS A THRONE FOR YOUR OWN SAFETY. YOU HAD TO FALL, BUT A FOURTH SERAPH IN HELL WOULD HAVE DISTURBED THE BALANCE, AND YOU WOULD HAVE NEVER GONE TO EARTH.

“God did _what?_ ”

EVERYTHING YOU DID WAS OF YOUR OWN FREE WILL, Death said. GOD DOES NOT SEE ONE UNIVERSE, HE SEES ALL UNIVERSES. THERE WAS ONLY A VERY SMALL CHANCE OF SALVAGING THE UNIVERSE. VANISHINGLY SMALL. THERE WAS A LOT OF SUFFERING IN THE PATH HE FINALLY CHOSE, BUT IT DIDN’T END WITH DEATH LIKE ALL THE OTHERS.

“Death for whom?” Crowley was becoming increasingly perplexed about this whole thing.

EVERYONE, Death said. THE HUMANS GO TO HEAVEN OR HELL. THE FALLEN ANGELS ARE IN THE ABYSS. VERY FEW WHO COME TO ME ARE TRULY GONE. THERE WAS A WAY TO SAVE THEM ALL—TO REDEEM ALL THOSE SOULS, BOTH HUMAN AND ANGEL, LOST IN THE ABYSS. GOD LOVED HIS CHILDREN AND DID NOT WANT TO LEAVE THEM THERE TO SUFFER FOR THE MISTAKE OF ONE ANGEL. HE INTENDED ON SAVING ALL OF THE DEMONS AND THE DAMNED HUMAN SOULS, BUT HE ONLY HAD ONE ANGEL LEFT TO MAKE, SO HE HAD TO SHAPE THAT ANGEL SO THAT THIS UNIVERSE MIGHT COME ABOUT.

“You’re not implying…?”

GOD MADE YOU TO SAVE ALL OF THE FALLEN, Death stated. YOU NEEDED TO FALL AND THEN UNFALL, AND TO THAT END YOU NEEDED TO MEET AZIRAPHALE AND THEN LOSE HIM. YOUR RETURN TO HEAVEN WOULD THEN DISRUPT THE SOCIAL ORDERS IN BOTH HEAVEN AND HELL. THIS WAS NECESSARY.

“Hold on,” Crowley said loudly, holding up a hand. “You’re telling me that Aziraphale and I _meeting,_ and Aziraphale _dying_ —that was all part of some stupid _ineffable plan?_ He _died—horribly_.”

GOD DID NOT THINK IT WAS FAIR EITHER, Death said. BUT IT WAS YOUR OWN FREE WILL, REMEMBER. GOD SAW ALL POSSIBLE UNIVERSES, EACH ONE OPERATED SOLELY BY FREE WILL, AND ALL HE DID WAS SET UP THE INITIAL CONDITIONS SO THAT THE BEST UNIVERSE WOULD COME TO PASS.

“The _initial conditions?”_ Crowley exclaimed. “You’re telling me that God—that I was _made_ —not just to, you know, _exist_ , but to fulfil some great destiny? To fix _Lucifer’s_ mistake?”

YOU WERE THE LAST SERAPH, Death said simply. IF YOU DID NOT FIX THE MISTAKE, IT WOULD NOT BE FIXED. THE UNIVERSE WOULD DIE.

“Well, then I suppose the universe is still going to die,” Crowley said miserably, “because I don’t have the foggiest idea how to redeem original sin. I’m the Serpent, remember?”

GOD GAVE YOU EVERYTHING YOU WOULD NEED, Death said. YOUR TRUE FORM, FOR EXAMPLE, WITHOUT WHICH YOU WOULD NOT HAVE ESCAPED THE WARDING AROUND THE TREE OF LIFE. HE DID FEEL VERY BAD ABOUT PUTTING THIS ON YOUR AND AZIRAPHALE’S SHOULDERS—

“Hang on, what’s Aziraphale got to do with it?” Crowley interrupted, possibly a tad more aggressively than absolutely necessary. “You said God had already made him, he was off inventing books or something.”

HE HAD. AZIRAPHALE WAS THERE WHEN I DIED. HE WAS A WITNESS. HE WENT WITH VENUS TO GOD TO EXPLAIN WHAT HAD HAPPENED. GOD WAS CONSIDERING STARTING ALL OVER WITH A NEW UNIVERSE. HE WAS UPSET.

“Well, _that’s_ reassuring.”

AZIRAPHALE VOLUNTEERED HIS SERVICES. HE WANTED GOD TO SAVE THE EARTH, AND GOD KNEW YOU WOULDN’T BE ABLE TO DO IT BY YOURSELF.

“So He’s been meddling around with Aziraphale too? Great.”

HE VOLUNTEERED, Death repeated. _HIS_ FREE WILL. GOD ENSURED THAT YOU TWO WOULD MEET IN EDEN, AND THAT WAS THE LAST TIME HE INTERFERED.

“Yeah, _right_ ,” Crowley said bitterly. “He couldn’t have just explained all this instead of manipulating us from the shadows?”

WOULD YOU HAVE BEEN WILLING TO DO WHAT WAS NECESSARY?

“Probably,” Crowley mumbled.

EVERYTHING HINGED OUR YOUR UNFALLING. IT IS NOT EASY TO RETURN TO GRACE. IT TOOK YEARS—SEVEN, TO BE PRECISE—AND SIX MILLENNIA BEFORE THAT OF YOU TWO GETTING TO KNOW EACH OTHER.

Crowley cast Death a sharp look.

THERE WERE THINGS YOU NEEDED TO DO THAT YOU SIMPLY WOULD NEVER HAVE DONE UNDER ANY OTHER CIRCUMSTANCES. AN IMMORTAL SOUL NEEDED TO DIE AND RETURN—THAT’S YOU RIGHT NOW. YOU NEED TO CARRY THIS MESSAGE. BUT TO BE HERE, YOU NEEDED TO BE DRAINED OF YOUR POWERS AND DIE, AND THEN BE BEYOND MY ABILITY TO REAP. LITERALLY THE ONLY WAY TO ACHIEVE THAT IS THROUGH A SOUL BIND WITH SOMEONE WHO HAD EATEN FROM THE TREE OF LIFE.

BUT YOU NEEDED TO HAVE A REASON TO CREATE A SOUL BIND IN THE FIRST PLACE, AND THEN RETRIEVE THE FRUIT FROM THE TREE OF LIFE AND GIVE IT TO THAT PERSON WITHOUT SAVING EVEN A SMALL PIECE FOR YOURSELF. DO YOU KNOW HOW MANY PEOPLE WOULD POTENTIALLY DO ALL OF THOSE THINGS OF THEIR OWN FREE WILL, IN ALL OF CREATION, IN ALL POSSIBLE WORLDS?

It did seem a little improbable to Crowley. “Probably not many,” he mumbled.

EXACTLY ONE, Death said. YOU. YOU HAVE ACCOMPLISHED THE IMPOSSIBLE. THIS MOMENT HAS BEEN SIX THOUSAND YEARS IN THE MAKING.

“I still don’t see how I’m supposed to save the world or whatever.”

YOU ALREADY HAVE, Death said. YOU HAVE SET GEARS IN MOTION. THE ANGEL KAZARIEL DISCOVERED HER FREE WILL BECAUSE SHE GUARDED YOU IN HEAVEN AND THEN LATER WAS POSTED ON EARTH TO WATCH FOR YOUR RETURN. SHE IS SPREADING FREE WILL EVEN AS WE SPEAK. YOUR RETURN TO GRACE HAS INSPIRED MANY, IN HEAVEN AND HELL ALIKE. WHEN AZIRAPHALE WAS TRAPPED IN HEAVEN, HE MET SEVERAL DEPARTED HUMAN SOULS, AND EVEN NOW THEY ARE REFORMING THE SYSTEM OF HEAVENS. THE NEW HEAVEN WILL BE BETTER, AND ALL WHO COME SHALL BE WELCOME.

BUT THIS IS NOT THE APOCALYPSE—THE EARTH SHALL REMAIN UNTOUCHED AND CONTINUE IN ITS PRESENT COURSE. BUT RECALL THAT HALF OF THE DECEASED OF HUMANITY ARE CURRENTLY TRAPPED IN HELL. THEY WILL BE SAVED, AND THE FALLEN ANGELS SHALL BE RETURNED HOME. ALL OF THIS SHALL BE ACCOMPLISHED THROUGH THEIR OWN FREE WILL. _THIS_ IS THE WORLD GOD WANTED. IT IS NOT FAIR THAT YOU ARE PAYING THE PRICE FOR THE MISTAKES OF OTHERS, BUT IT IS A SMALL PRICE FOR ONE TO SAVE MANY.

“Don’t go all _Star Trek_ on me here,” Crowley muttered, but he had to admit that this future sounded really nice.

AND GOD IS NOT ASKING FOR YOUR LIFE, Death continued. YOU WILL LIVE, AS WILL AZIRAPHALE. HE IS PERSONALLY MAKING SURE THERE ARE NO SNAGS IN THIS AREA. YOU ARE DOING THE UNIVERSE A GREAT SERVICE, AND GOD INTENDS ON REWARDING YOU RICHLY FOR IT. YOUR TRUE POWERS AS A SERAPH WILL BE REVEALED TO YOU SOON. GOD HID THEM, AND ONLY GOD CAN UNHIDE THEM, OR SOMETHING TOUCHED BY GOD.

“The plan,” Crowley realised slowly, “to get rid of the warding spell.”

IT WILL UNLOCK YOUR POWERS AS A SERAPH AS WELL, Death said. I CANNOT TELL YOU MUCH ABOUT THE FUTURE, IN CASE I SHOULD SAY SOMETHING AND ALTER CHOICES YOU WOULD HAVE OTHERWISE MADE, BUT LET ME ASSURE YOU THAT YOU _DO_ HAVE FREE WILL, AND GOD HAS A VESTED INTEREST IN MAKING SURE THINGS WORK OUT FOR YOU. YOU ARE STILL HIS CHILD.

Crowley gave a disbelieving huff, but if this would ensure that he and Aziraphale would be together…

Maybe God _had_ engineered his and Aziraphale’s initial meeting in Eden, but the ensuing six millennia hadn’t _felt_ ineffable at all. He and Aziraphale had made their own decisions—sometimes incredibly stupid decisions—and he truly didn’t believe that his current attachment to Aziraphale had been created by anyone other than himself. He was friends with Aziraphale because he _wanted_ to be, not because God had forced his hand, and he supposed now that, if God _had_ given them a little nudge in the right direction, well, then maybe that was okay after all. Maybe he should even be grateful. There were a lot of angels in Heaven, but Crowley didn’t think he would’ve been able to grow to care for any of them half as much as he did Aziraphale.

Crowley cleared his throat. He supposed he could help out with what was left of the ineffable plan, then, as thanks for God having made sure that he met the person who would make his life so worth living. “You said I’ve done most of it already?” he asked. “What’s left to do?”

JUST WHAT YOU WERE GOING TO DO ANYWAY, Death said. TAKE THE MESSAGE FOR ME, AND RESCUE AZIRAPHALE, OF COURSE. THAT IS ALL THAT IS REQUIRED.

Crowley frowned at Death. “Rescue…?”

HE WENT TO HELL, Death explained. TO FIND A FRAGMENT OF THE TEN COMMANDMENTS WITH WHICH TO SAVE YOUR LIFE. YOU WILL FIND THIS OUT WHEN YOU GO BACK TO THE BOOKSHOP AND FIND BERT AND A PORTAL TO HELL.

“Hang on, I thought you weren’t going to tell me about my future?”

I REALISE I HAVE SAID TOO MUCH ALREADY, Death said. IF YOU THINK THINGS ARE ALL TAKEN CARE OF, YOU MIGHT FAIL TO TAKE THE APPROPRIATE STEPS TO SECURE YOUR OWN FUTURE. I’LL JUST WIPE THIS LAST BIT FROM YOUR MEMORY, YES?

“Hang on,” Crowley said hastily, but Death had already reached out and touched Crowley on the forehead.

“Don’t go all _Star Trek_ on me here,” Crowley muttered. He blinked. “Sorry, were you saying something?”

I THINK WE’RE ABOUT DONE HERE, Death said. TAKE MY MESSAGE. HAVE FAITH.

Crowley opened his mouth to protest, baffled. Death touched him on the chest and Crowley felt his heart start beating again.

 

~~***~~

 

“Just spit it out already, you monotonous creature,” Lucifer said in a bored tone, tapping his fingers on the arm of his throne. Lucifer had never wanted a throne, not really, but it was clear their Father hadn’t been worthy of one, so Lucifer had made himself into a new god, and his demons had followed him.

“A seraph has—has—entered Hell,” Belial stammered. Usually the archdemon of envy was more poised than this, confident almost to the point of arrogance, but clearly something had shaken him. And this news was certainly unprecedented.

Lucifer sat forward in his throne. “A seraph?” he repeated incredulously. “The Metatron?”

Belial shook his head.

“Is it still here?” Lucifer asked quickly, feeling outwards and seeking an intruder.

Belial shook his head again. “No, my lord, he has escaped.”

“Sandelaphon?” Lucifer quizzed.

Belial shook his head again.

“Then Cassiel has returned,” Lucifer concluded, alarm spreading through him; with Cassiel returned, Heaven would have the upper hand.

Again, Belial shook his head.

Lucifer stared at him, perplexed. “Then who? Beelzebub is still here.” He could feel the presence of his right-hand lieutenant, meting out punishment in one of the lower circles.

“I do not know how,” Belial stammered, “but I recognised him. The serpent.”

Lucifer stared at him. _The serpent?_

“The one they call Crowley,” Belial continued. “The one who returned to grace.”

“He is not a seraph,” Lucifer said. It was a fact.

Belial shook his head. “He was not. But he is now, and he just tore a swath straight through Hell.”

Lucifer stood up, all three pairs of wings unfolding behind him. “ _What?_ ”

Belial cringed, and Lucifer felt the shockwave of his own anger course through Hell.

“He had a message,” Belial whispered. “For you, my lord.”

Lucifer, who had taken two steps away from his throne, stopped. He turned and looked down his nose at Belial, who was doing his best to appear very small.

“What message?” If it was a threat, or if the seraph had joined Heaven, war would be imminent. Much blood would be spilled either way. Or perhaps the hand of his Father was here at work, mocking him again.

“He said ‘Ishtyr forgives you.’”

Every atom in Lucifer’s body froze.

“He said Ishtyr is Death,” Belial continued, still cringing away, evidently expecting to be punished for bearing this message. “And he forgives you.”

Lucifer’s knees went weak and he had to steady himself with his wings. _Ishtyr is Death_.

“That…is a name I have not heard in a very long time,” Lucifer said. He looked down at his own hands, hands belonging to a corporation he had meticulously cared for for six thousand years.

 _Ishtyr forgives you_.

Lucifer began to feel very unwell and walked back to his throne to sit down.

“…My lord?” Belial prompted, sounding a little like he thought this was a trap.

“You may go,” Lucifer said, waving a hand dismissively.

Belial opened his mouth as though to say something, thought better of it, and hurried from his presence.

The archdemon pulled the large, heavy, cast-iron door shut behind him, and the cavern echoed with the sound.

Lucifer’s mind was sweeping back, and back, and back, to when the world was still young. Lucifer himself had barely been created—well, Venus then, as bright as the Morning Star. God had told her the world was perfect and that she was loved.

And then Ishtyr, the first, best, and only true friend Lucifer had ever had, was crushed by the weight of Lucifer’s own soul. In that instant, sin and mortality had been created. It had not been possible for someone to die, yet Lucifer had found a way and lost her dearest friend. And Lucifer, in her grief, shock, and pain, had gone to God and begged for Ishtyr’s immortality to be returned to him, and God had turned her away.

That was when the resentment had started. Lucifer’s heart had been hardened, and he knew he had to show the true light to his brothers and sisters. It was his duty to show them all what a hypocrite their Father was, that God would say the world was perfect and then allow one of his creations to be killed, and without even showing an ounce of remorse.

Lucifer had Fallen for that. He had single-handedly divided Heaven and led to half of the angels being cast out alongside him…because God had been unable to save his friend. Because God had _refused_ to save his friend. Even though it hadn’t been God who had killed Ishtyr in the first place.

 _Ishtyr is Death_. _He forgives you_.

There was no way of knowing if the message was genuine. Death had only been summoned to Earth once, during the attempt at the Apocalypse, but he had only interacted with the other horsemen and they had all faded away afterwards, unseen by anyone after the meddling of the Antichrist.

The Antichrist, Lucifer’s own son, sent to Earth to end it all because Lucifer was tired. Tired of the millennia of watching time tick by, waiting for the moment he would finally put enough space between himself and what he had done that he might be able to escape his guilt, grief, and anger.

God had abandoned Lucifer, so Lucifer had made it his business to destroy his Father’s beloved Creation.

Except maybe God _had_ granted his request—had done so all those millennia ago—and maybe that meant that his Father hadn’t abandoned him after all.

And Lucifer felt a small crack appear in the heart he had hardened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me now invite you to take a brief detour to read [_In the Beginning_](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11627292), which, though it is technically Part 7 of this series, is a prequel and ought to be read at this point in the narrative.


	24. The Soil of Free Will

The three of them looked down at the dead corporation on the floor of the bookshop.

“What should we do with it?” Bert asked, a tad nervously.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale prompted.

Crowley raised his hand and felt for his power. It wasn’t difficult; it seemed to fill every inch of his being. It was still a little disconcerting, but now that he was back on Earth it had settled down. He found that he could control and call on it just like he had his previous powers, with the notable exception that, in his metaphorical bank account of magic, he had just become a trillionaire. Crowley touched a tiny part of his power and, in front of him, the corporation vanished along with the jumble of chalk sigils and dried smears of blood.

“Where he’d go?” Bert asked, blinking.

“Back to the universe,” Crowley said.

“He…died when you bit him,” Bert said slowly.

“He was discorporated when I bit him,” Crowley corrected. “He’s fine, I’m sure.”

Aziraphale made an unhappy noise, and Crowley cast him a surprised look.

“You bit me too,” Bert said, sounding like he was trying to understand something.

“Oh, yeah, sorry about that,” Crowley said, feeling guilt begin to settle over him. He had treated both of them rather poorly while trapped in the haze of his true form.

“I didn’t die,” Bert said.

“Well, I didn’t want to kill you, did I?” Crowley asked. “I can dry bite.”

“Dry bite?” Bert echoed.

“I inject my venom,” Crowley explained. “No venom injection, no death. It’s called a dry bite.”

Bert made a noise that implied this did not reassure him a great deal.

“Sorry,” Crowley said again, in case it would help.

Bert opened his mouth to say something else, but at that moment his mobile buzzed. Bert’s expression quickly shifted to a sort of relieved worry, and he pulled his mobile out of his pocket and glanced down at it. “Donnie,” he said by way of explanation, and quickly walked into the back room to take the call.

“Hang on, did we miss the wedding?” Crowley asked in surprise. “What day is it?”

“He pushed the wedding back,” Aziraphale said. “I’ll tell you all about it later.”

“Yeah,” Crowley agreed worriedly.

They were silent for a moment, and then Aziraphale shifted uncomfortably beside him.

“And speaking of, er, your time as a serpent,” Aziraphale began nervously, “I’m really sorry I made you eat that mouse. You’d said you didn’t want to and I…I waited until you couldn’t refuse.”

Crowley was unpleasantly reminded of the experience, and a hand went to his throat automatically. He could still almost feel the pressure of the mouse in his throat, and the sharp, disgustingly delicious tang of its blood in his mouth. He must have paled or shivered a little, because Aziraphale moved closer and very carefully laid a hand on his elbow.

“It wasn’t right of me to do it,” Aziraphale said, and Crowley could hear the guilt and conviction in his voice. “I was just—you were _starving_ —but I still shouldn’t have done it, I should have found another way. It was inexcusable and I’m so, _so_ sorry—”

Crowley was still a little upset about it himself, but it might well have been the only thing keeping him alive those last few days, and he wasn’t upset enough about it to be willing to stand by while Aziraphale worried himself to pieces over it.

“It’s…it’s okay,” he said, forcing his hand away from his throat and finding Aziraphale’s hand instead. He gave it a gentle squeeze. “I forgive you. Just…don’t do it again, okay?”

Aziraphale looked horrified by the prospect. “No, of course not.”

“Here,” Crowley said brightly, “you can make it up to me. The Ritz. Tonight. We can get some proper food.”

Aziraphale positively beamed at the suggestion, but then his expression faltered. “Above and Below will still be tracking us,” he pointed out. “Bert said the angels came into the bookshop, so they must have realised Kazariel was lying about us not being here.”

Crowley admitted to himself with some reluctance that this was a fair point. “Have we heard from her? Is she all right?”

Aziraphale retrieved Crowley’s original mobile from the counter and phoned her.

Crowley watched him, but Aziraphale shook his head after a moment.

“Hi, it’s me again,” Aziraphale said after a moment, apparently to voicemail. “Everything worked out on our end and, er, we just wanted to know if you were all right. You know where to find us.” He hung up and shrugged hopelessly at Crowley.

Bert chose that moment to reappear, stowing his mobile away into his pocket. “The wedding date’s officially re-set,” he said cheerfully. “Sunday after next.”

“You’re looking forward to it?” Aziraphale asked; Crowley thought it was a bit of an odd question.

“Absolutely,” Bert said, and he and Aziraphale exchanged a meaningful look. “Hell does that to a person.”

“Well, I’m glad you worked it out,” Aziraphale said, the honesty bare in his voice.

Crowley looked back and forth between them, utterly mystified, but Aziraphale patted him on the hand in a way that made him think Aziraphale would explain it all to him in private later.

“So will you two be staying here or coming back to Midfarthing?” Bert asked.

“We were just discussing that,” Crowley said, glancing at Aziraphale.

“Heaven knows we’ve been seen here recently,” Aziraphale filled Bert in. “So it may not be safe to stay.”

“Well, if Above or Below come knocking, can’t I just fight them off?” Crowley asked hopefully, loath to forfeit London entirely. “Unless Beelzebub or the Metatron want to handle this personally—I’m a _seraph_. That should keep us off the board, right?”

Aziraphale seemed to think this was a valid point, but he did look a little worried about it. “In a fair fight, maybe,” he said, “but that’s not to say they won’t try to be underhanded about it.”

“Or bring backup,” Bert added.

“But why would they bother?” Crowley asked. “We’re hard to kill now; maybe it won’t be worth it to them anymore. It’s not like we’re intending to fight them.”

“Maybe,” Aziraphale allowed. “We ought to try to keep out of it, whatever ‘it’ is; killing angels was what made me Fall in the first place, so we should avoid that. There’s no sense in you Falling again, Crowley.”

They all looked at each other for a while.

“I suppose we can go back to Midfarthing,” Crowley said. “If they’re looking for us, we won’t be hard to find now. We’re sitting ducks. They know we’ve been seen at the bookshop, and I’m sure I’m lighting this place up like a beacon. Adam’s shield might be able to hide my aura's signature, though.”

“There’s got to be a better solution,” Aziraphale said. “A deterrent that will keep us off Above and Below’s hit lists, but where we don’t have to hide in Midfarthing forever.” He shot Bert a glance. “Not that Midfarthing’s not lovely and all, but it would be nice to not have to spend eternity there.”

Bert raised a hand to show that no offense had been taken. “Understandable.”

Crowley nodded. He was a _seraph_ now, and he felt that that meant there should be some way he could take Aziraphale to the Ritz without looking over his shoulder every five minutes for divine or diabolical assassins.

“Actually,” Bert said after a few seconds of thought, and vanished up the stairs.

“It sounds like Above and Below are fragmenting,” Crowley said hopefully to Aziraphale. “Maybe we can just stay out of it, and they’ll be too busy dealing with their own problems to bother to track us down.”

“We can hope,” Aziraphale said, “but didn’t you say Death was talking about Heaven being reformed, and the demons being saved?”

“Yeah, but who knows if he was telling the truth,” Crowley pointed out. Given that he _was_ a seraph, and Death had no good reason to lie, he thought it probably was true—he hoped it was—but he wasn’t about to blindly take Death’s word for it until he saw some actual evidence. “Besides, it was _Death_ ,” Crowley pointed out. “Death and God work on long timescales, you know? Maybe Heaven will be reformed, but maybe it’ll take another thousand years.”

Aziraphale made a noise of agreement.

“I wonder if we could play both sides,” Crowley mused after a bit more thought. “Threaten that I’ll join the other side if one of them sends someone after us. Above and Below are evenly matched right now, but if I joined a side that would sway things considerably.”

Aziraphale nodded. “But would you be willing to join a side?”

“I’m just saying we _threaten_ it,” said Crowley, who really didn’t want to be sent to destroy great swaths of anything for anyone. He could join Heaven and wipe out Hell, or join Hell to wipe out Heaven, but neither of them were exactly saints and he didn’t want to fight in another war anyway, even if the Earth wouldn’t be the battleground. He just wanted to live with Aziraphale in peace.

It was then that Bert arrived at the bottom of the steps, holding something in a plastic bag.

“I thought we should probably keep this,” Bert said, holding it out. “I’ve been keeping it in the fridge with the mice. Does this change anything?”

Aziraphale took the bag and looked down at what appeared to be a slightly sticky brown pellet. He looked up at the barman in astonishment. “Bert, that’s genius.”

Crowley moved to look over Aziraphale’s shoulder and froze when he recognised what it was. In the Ziploc bag lay a peach pit.

 

~~***~~

 

“Okay,” Aziraphale said, leaving one hand on the priest’s arm as he pointed to the patch of dark earth directly behind the tombstone, where Crowley had miracled a small fibreglass pole into existence. “I know we haven’t talked much, but please, _please_ , keep an eye on this Tree.”

Father Gilbert nodded agreeably.

“It’s a very rare Tree,” Crowley added. “Don’t let it get mowed over or anything.”

“It’s safe with me,” Father Gilbert told him.

“ _Very_ rare,” Crowley repeated.

“I assure you it will be perfectly all right.”

Crowley let out a long sigh and looked at Aziraphale, who shrugged.

“Okay, we’ll get going then,” Crowley said. He fixed Father Gilbert with one last look. “Look after this Tree.”

“Eden itself will not have seen a more perfect Tree,” Father Gilbert assured him.

Crowley snorted a little at that, and motioned for Aziraphale that they should go.

“Oh,” Aziraphale said as he took a step towards Crowley and stopped, turning back, “and if anyone asks about this gravestone…” He gestured to the one directly in front of them, next to where they’d buried the peach pit, “it’s just one of those local oddities, yes?”

“Been here forever,” Crowley agreed, and Aziraphale felt a slight thrum of power in the air. “No one knows how it got here. Bears no relation to Aziraphale.”

“None at all,” Aziraphale added.

Father Gilbert seemed amused by something. “Naturally,” he said.

Aziraphale glanced at Crowley, but he shrugged; it seemed like the suggestion had worked.

“Thank you for everything,” Aziraphale told Father Gilbert, moving to stand next to Crowley.

Father Gilbert gave him a genuine smile then. “You are very welcome, but I must say it was your idea in the first place. But I do think it was worth it, in the end.”

“Hang on, don’t get ahead of yourself,” Crowley said, gesturing to where he’d buried the peach pit. “You’ve got to get the thing to grow first.”

Father Gilbert gave him a kind smile. “Do not fear,” he said.

“Yeah, yeah,” Crowley said, waving his hand. “Come on, angel.”

And they walked out of the cemetery, away from the tombstone reading A. ZIRAPHALE, with several invisible, ethereal white feathers still resting next to it, and with the seed of the Tree of Life buried behind it, in the soil of free will.

 

~~***~~

 

“You’re not going to wipe my memory too, are you?” Bert asked worriedly as Crowley and Aziraphale made their way into the pub.

“Nah,” Crowley said, hopping onto one of the barstools in delight and thinking about how much he’d missed this place. Aziraphale took a seat beside him. They’d just come over from Mendellson’s, where Crowley had convinced Harper that Aziraphale had been perfectly alive all along.

“What are you telling them happened?” Bert asked.

“Miracle cure,” Crowley said cheerily. “Saved Aziraphale from the brink of death. It took a while to work, and then we went on a rather long holiday to celebrate.”

“Holiday?”

“Travelled the world,” Crowley clarified. “Ate loads of cake. It was great.”

Aziraphale gave a snort of amusement next to him.

“Of course then Harper wanted to give all of Aziraphale’s books back,” Crowley continued, “now that he had returned from holiday.”

“Oh, he really loved those books,” Bert said.

“I told him he could keep them,” Aziraphale said, clearly doing his best to not sound too put out about it. “Crowley convinced him it had been a Christmas present.”

“Hey, I could go un-convince him if you wanted,” Crowley said.

“No, it’s all right,” Aziraphale insisted in the tone of voice of someone still convincing himself that it was. “All the fun’s in collecting them anyway.”

“I’ll do a blanket spell on the rest of the village later tonight,” Crowley said, rolling up his sleeves. “Excluding yourself and the other people we know well enough to have talked to in person already. It should work well enough.”

“This is just so unbelievable,” Bert said. “Everything’s just…back to normal, then?”

“Well, not quite,” Crowley said, leaning his elbows onto the bar. “We spoke to your fiancée and it sounds like you’re actually going to get married this time.”

Bert gave a short laugh, but he did light up at the prospect. “She was furious with me for vanishing for a month and a half, but it sounds like she’ll take me back.”

“Yeah, we may have convinced her that I, er, nearly died on holiday,” Crowley said, scratching at the back of his neck. “And you heroically came to my rescue, but we were on an island in the Pacific at the time, and there was a typhoon…”

“We were all trapped on the island for a month and you just couldn’t make it back because there weren’t any planes or boats,” Aziraphale picked up. “But we did occasionally get cell service by climbing up coconut trees, so she knew you weren’t dead. And there was plenty to eat.”

“Just helping you out,” Crowley said cheerfully. “What are friends for?”

Bert stared at them in horror. “You told my fiancée _what?”_

 

~~***~~

 

Aziraphale had not been to the Ritz in over a year, and it had been almost two decades since he had been in his right mind at the time.

It was perfectly marvellous. The Ritz hadn’t changed much, all things considered, and Aziraphale found himself almost beaming with delight when he discovered they still made their cream cakes and cucumber sandwiches the same way.

“This is lovely, my dear,” Aziraphale told Crowley. He’d thought he’d never be able to sit here again, at their usual table, eating food so real he could taste its physicality and gazing at Crowley across from him, whole and happy and shining with divinity and so, _so_ beautiful. The road that had led them here was winding and impossibly improbable, but somehow they had made it and he was unspeakably grateful for that.

“Told you it was worth the drive,” Crowley replied.

Aziraphale gave him a faint smile; Crowley had insisted on this little trip back to London to fulfil his promise, even if they’d had to drive all the way from Midfarthing to do so. Crowley had seemed inordinately pleased to spend so much time in the Bentley, though, and Aziraphale had rather enjoyed it too.

“Do you want to go to St James’s after this?” Crowley asked as he swirled his glass of champagne. “It won’t be getting dark for a while yet, and I bet there will be actual ducks.”

“My dear, you know I would love to.”

There were, in fact, actual ducks, and other people too, and litter, and it rained on them a little, but Aziraphale loved every minute of it. The imagined St James’s of his heaven had been perfect, but here, with the real Crowley by his side, it was paradise.

They found a nice bench to sit down on that wasn’t too wet, and Crowley miracled them an umbrella as the clouds decided to open after all.

Aziraphale leaned against Crowley slightly, just soaking in his friend's presence. He could do it in so many different ways now: his physical presence, the warmth of his aura, the touch of his soul against Aziraphale’s, and the awareness of the bright power of a seraph, which seemed to be spilling over into Aziraphale’s perception as well.

They’d already tossed some bread to the ducks, and Aziraphale watched them poking around for the rest of it in the rain, but his mind was preoccupied with other things.

They had, somehow, impossibly, survived all of this, and Crowley was now absently twining their fingers together under the shelter of the umbrella. Aziraphale decided the time had finally come to tell Crowley what he’d been afraid to since the day the realisation had first come to him, decades ago. He had feared for what he might lose if what he was about to say was poorly received, but he finally felt confident that that wouldn’t be the case. He had underestimated Crowley so very many times before, especially where this was concerned, and he didn’t think he was going to underestimate him anymore.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said, mouth suddenly dry.

Crowley turned his head towards him slightly. The rain drummed quietly on the umbrella.

“My dear,” Aziraphale said, voice soft, running his thumb gently over the side of Crowley’s hand, “I—”

“Excuse me,” said a nervous voice.

Aziraphale felt his words die in his throat as Crowley pulled his hand free and raised it in warning towards the man approaching them. He was short, wearing a bowler hat and a pinstripe suit from the 20s, and had been completely soaked by the rain, but there was a trace of power around him, and Aziraphale realised he was a demon.

“You are Crowley, yes?” the demon asked nervously, and Aziraphale supposed that he was rather low-ranking, and as such must have been utterly terrified to approach Crowley. Several dozen metres away, also getting soaked in the rain, stood several more demons, all equally low in rank, one of whom was looking rather embarrassed as a duck tried eating his shoelaces.

“What do you want?” Crowley asked warily. He seemed to realise the demons posed no threat to either of them, though, because his aura didn’t brighten.

The demon bowed, grabbing his hat as it fell from his balding head, rain dripping off the brim. “Please do not smite me, sir. My name is Golgoth. I come only seeking Enlightenment.”

Aziraphale glanced at Crowley, but he was frowning. “Enlightenment?”

“We were all cast out of Heaven together,” Golgoth said, straightening and fiddling with his bowler hat, “but He has taken you back.”

“So?” Crowley asked suspiciously.

“We did not think it was possible to return to Heaven,” Golgoth said, addressing this to somewhere in the vicinity of Crowley’s scarf. “We thought we were damned for eternity, but you have shown us that this may no longer be the case.”

“Okay,” Crowley said when Golgoth paused, evidently waiting for a response.

“We have sinned,” Golgoth said. “But much of it was long ago. We were young and foolish, but now we are old and have learned better. We do not like Hell. We do not like our jobs. Many of us want to go home.”

Aziraphale blinked at him in astonishment and turned his gaze back on Crowley, who looked equally surprised.

“You were saved,” Golgoth said, bowing again. “We would like to be saved too.”

“…Wow,” Crowley said after a moment as Golgoth straightened up again. “Look, I think that’s great, but I’m afraid I can’t help you.”

Golgoth blinked at him, rain dripping off his nose. He looked oddly pathetic and slightly cold.

“When I unFell,” Crowley said, “it was because of my own actions. I don’t have the power to unFall you, but you have the power to unFall yourself.”

Golgoth blinked at him again. “UnFall…myself?”

“Yeah,” Crowley said, adjusting himself on the bench next to Aziraphale. “You know, free will. Repent for your sins. Do community service.” He glanced at Aziraphale. “…Meet people. See if that does anything.”

“Community service,” Golgoth repeated reverently, as though Crowley had endowed him with a great and precious secret. “Repentance of our sins. Meeting people.” He bowed again. “Thank you, unFallen Crowley.”

“Er, no problem,” Crowley said, and Golgoth began to back away, giving the occasional bow.

He rejoined his friends near the edge of the water and they began to talk excitedly amongst themselves. Then all of them turned and bowed towards where Crowley and Aziraphale were still sitting on the park bench.

“That was…strange,” Aziraphale commented.

“Yeah,” Crowley agreed, scratching his ear. “I mean, I knew there were plenty of demons who didn’t really like Hell, like me, but…they never seemed very willing to take their lives into their own hands. Free will’s not exactly a hot commodity down there, not when you’ve got archdemons breathing down your neck.”

Aziraphale made a noise of agreement. He knew Crowley was hesitant to believe the future Death had relayed to him and which he’d then relayed in turn to Aziraphale…but it looked like it might actually be coming to pass. He remembered the demons he had killed in Hell recently and felt a pang of regret. If the demons _were_ , somehow, all to be saved, even if it took a millennium…then the demons he had slain were no more inherently, irredeemably wicked than he or Crowley was.

After a moment the demons turned and trotted off, and Crowley asked, “What was it you were saying?”

“Hm?” Aziraphale said, feeling a little preoccupied now and like the moment had passed. “Ah, nothing.”

 

~~***~~

 

The doors to Lucifer’s throne room burst open, no easy feat for reinforced iron.

“Brother, what do you think you are doing?” Beelzebub demanded, striding in, sparks snapping across the flagstones where his boots contacted, the six wings of a seraph bristling behind him.

Lucifer looked up idly from where he was slouching in his throne, playing with a fragment of mirror only a few inches across, turning it over and over in his hand. “Please be more specific, Beelz.”

Beelzebub came to a stop a few metres away, glaring up at him. “ _Hell_ ,” he said loudly, “is falling apart, in case you hadn’t noticed, _my lord_.”

Lucifer looked up, letting his eyes coast over Beelzebub’s wings. They had been beautiful and white, once. All of theirs had. Beelzebub had been kind, and that kindness had made him sympathetic. He had been Lucifer’s closest supporter, and he was now his most loyal lieutenant. He had gone by another name, then. They all had.

“Let it fall apart,” Lucifer said. “It is not worth saving.”

Beelzebub gaped at him.

Lucifer turned the shard of mirror over in his hand, looking down at his own reflection, at the face of a friend he had lost so very long ago.

“Thiz izz your _kingdom_ ,” Beelzebub hissed, stalking closer, boots scattering more sparks. He stopped just short of the handful of steps leading up to Lucifer’s throne, glaring up at him. “You would zzit here and watch it fall?”

“We have already Fallen,” Lucifer said calmly, turning the mirror over, the surface catching the gleam of torchlight. “We cannot Fall again.”

“There iz chaos,” Beelzebub growled, forcing the buzz out of his voice by what looked like sheer force of will. “Anarchy.”

“There has always been chaos,” Lucifer said.

“We made _order_ of the chaos,” Beelzebub corrected sharply. “You and I.”

“Do you wish to stay here forever, Beelz?” Lucifer asked, turning over the piece of mirror. “In this Abyss, hated and forgotten?”

“You know we have no choice,” Beelzebub growled. “Have you forgotten what our Father did? To us? To _you?”_

“No,” Lucifer said, stopping the motion of the fragment of mirror. “But I believe the situation may have changed.”

Beelzebub stared at him. “…Changed?” A look of suspicion crossed his face. “Did Father speak to you? Do not believe His silver tongue.”

“Not quite Father,” Lucifer said. “But I believe an old friend did…the oldest.” He looked down at the fragment of mirror in his hand.

“You are not making sense, Lucifer,” Beelzebub said sharply. “If you will not defend your kingdom from the anarchists, I will do so for you.”

Lucifer held up a hand and found Beelzebub’s eyes with his own. “You were the first to follow me,” he stated. “The first to believe my story.”

“Yes, my lord,” Beelzebub said.

“You campaigned with me, you fought with me, you Fell with me, and you rule Hell with me.”

“I do only what you ask of me,” Beelzebub said. “You are the Light-bringer, and I follow your star.”

Lucifer leaned forward in his throne, closing his hand around the shard of mirror. “I will tell you what I have learned,” he said, “and then I may ask you to follow me one last time.”


	25. Nothing New

“Eight months, three days,” Azrael said, stepping forward and sweeping her eyes across the four souls standing before her. “Nineteen thousand heavens directly affected. Seven million four hundred thousand by other souls you encouraged to leave their heavens.

“Unrest has hit peak levels,” Azrael continued after a moment of letting the numbers sink in. “Those souls were happy and at peace, patiently waiting for Judgment Day when the New Jerusalem would be opened to them. They are now divided, unhappy, guilt-stricken, and heartbroken. I hope you are pleased with your efforts.”

“But they are _free_ ,” protested the soul of the human once known as King Ludwig the Second of Bavaria. “Those illusions of happiness were just that—illusions.”

“Happiness _is_ an illusion,” Azrael countered, fixing her eyes on the recalcitrant soul.

“No,” he protested. “I would be happy with Richard— _my_ Richard, not some copy you created.”

“People do not make other people happy,” Azrael asserted. This, she knew, was a basic fact. She turned on her heel and began walking past them, each soul held firmly by one of her guards. They had been very hard to catch.

“Consider a pair of humans,” she said. “A couple. They are together. Married and madly in love. You think they would be happy together in Paradise, yes?”

“Yes,” Ludwig said emphatically, and the one known as Harry Houdini nodded too.

“No,” Azrael corrected. “They squabble and bicker. Eternity is long. People don’t like each other half as much as they think they do. They will upset each other sometimes, maybe not even on purpose. They will say the wrong things and act the wrong way and hurt each other. People create conflict. That is why you all must be kept separate from each other.”

“That’s ridiculous,” said the one named Alexander Hamilton. “I would know.”

“Oh?” Azrael asked, coming to a stop in front of him. She met his gaze, and there was a challenge there. “Do tell.”

Alexander nudged his chin up. “I love my wife,” he said. “Eliza. But you’re right. I did stupid things, I said the wrong things, and God knows I did the wrong things, and she hurt me too, but that doesn’t mean I don’t love her. I do. The Eliza in my heaven—the one my mind created—that was not Eliza.

“I write,” Alexander explained, in a voice begging to be understood, “too much. I do not spend enough time with my children or with my wife. Eliza would stop me and convince me to spend more time with my family. And I enjoyed it, I really did. But when left to my own devices, my own subconscious—she would not stop me from writing. And my children—I want to see my sons as they grew to be, not as the perfect lawyers I imagine them as.”

Azrael considered this.

“And Richard,” Ludwig added. “I did not love him because he was perfect; I loved him _because_ he was flawed. I did not get to know him as well as I would have liked on Earth, and I want to get to know him now. I want to show him how much I love him, and give him the life I never could.”

“But what if your Richard does not want that life?” Azrael asked, walking over to him. “What if he loves another? Wants to share eternity with someone else? Is that not his right?”

Ludwig looked insulted at the thought. “That is not the case.”

“The harpy has a point,” the soul of the Roman emperor Otho pointed out from the end of the line.

Harry muttered something in agreement.

“Well, maybe for other people,” Ludwig protested, “but not for me. Not for Richard and I. I know it.”

“It cannot be assumed that that is the case for everyone,” Azrael said. “There are millions of souls here. We cannot accommodate individual cases for everyone. We do not have the time or resources to do so. Individual heavens are the only system that makes everyone happy.”

“Some _happiness_ ,” Ludwig said miserably. “Alone for eternity with nothing but your ego for company? Alexander knows what I’m talking about.”

“Hey, I _should_ _have_ been president,” he protested.

“You have caused much trouble, the four of you,” Azrael said sharply. “But it shall end here. Your minds shall be wiped of this…mischief, and you shall be returned to your heavens. You shall not suspect that this has ever occurred.”

“Hold on,” Ludwig said quickly. “You said you’re not opposed to custom heavens, just that you don’t have the manpower, right?”

Azrael frowned at him.

“I’ll do it,” Ludwig said quickly. “Send me. I’ll go to every heaven—each and every one—and work it out.”

“That would take millennia.”

“I’ll find help,” Ludwig said. “Or, you know, I have eternity, right? At least some people would be happier in the end. And if they don’t want to hear the truth…then you can wipe their minds. Win-win.”

“Actually,” Harry said loudly, “that sounds like a fantastic idea. Because really neither of you are right, don’t you see?”

Azrael frowned at him, one wing twitching.

“The question is if it is better to be free or happy, right? Well, clearly not everyone’s going to feel the same way about that, because there _is_ no right answer.”

“Freedom is _always_ preferable to false lies,” Ludwig protested. “I was a wealthy king. I could build anything I wanted, I could have _anything_ I wanted, but I couldn’t buy my freedom. And believe me, I tried.”

“I’m afraid I’ll have to disagree,” Otho said, shifting in the grip of the angel holding him. “I for one would take the harpy’s offer. I enjoyed this time with all of you, of course…but my paradise was nice. I was making Rome a better place and helping her people. That was all I ever wanted to do in life. This new world, so far in the future…it is strange. I wish to return to the world I know.”

“Do we have to limit this to two souls in a heaven?” Alexander asked. “I understand what you’re saying, Ludwig, but what about groups of souls? A sort of…joint heaven? I knew a lot of people on Earth, and I’d like to see them all again, but maybe not exclusively. I’m sure some of them are still bastards. But it would be nice to pop in every now and then. I mean, we’re all dead now, so there’s not exactly a lot to be holding grudges about.”

Azrael twisted her mouth, wanting to refuse on principle but finding there was some sense in what they said.

“Your job is to make the dead happy, right?” Harry asked, trying to meet her gaze.

Azrael reluctantly nodded.

“Then let us try this out,” he urged. “We’ve already caused enough damage, what’s another drop in the bucket? You can have your bruisers supervise too.”

Azrael gathered he was talking about her guards.

Ludwig nodded eagerly. “We’ll go through a bunch of heavens—fifty, or a hundred—and explain what’s happened and offer them a choice between those options—forgetting, sharing, or doing a sort of joint heaven. And we’ll see what they think. And then try it out.”

“I’m assuming you keep a ledger somewhere around here,” Harry picked up. “So if so-and-so wants their husband, then we can find him, and if he agrees then we’ll put them together. And then we’ll give it a couple of weeks, and see if they get happier. If they don’t, well, then just wipe all of our memories and stick us back into our boxes. You don’t have a lot to lose here.”

Azrael considered. “You are aware that multiple souls in one heaven prevents animate life from appearing in your imagined worlds?”

Harry nodded eagerly. “Actually, we may have found a way to fix that.”

Azrael blinked at him. “That’s not possible.”

“There’s this thing they call ‘science,’” Otho began to explain. “It’s like magic.”

“Quantum physics, specifically,” Harry took over. “I didn’t get all of it, but there’s this guy we found—we could find him again—what was his name again?”

“Richard,” Ludwig said immediately. “Not my Richard; another one.”

“Feynman,” Alexander remembered.

Harry nodded emphatically and looked like he wanted to snap his fingers, but couldn’t do so because the angelic guard was holding his hands behind his back, and quite securely too. He was an exceptionally slippery fellow. “He said the way it was happening was similar to, um, oh, what was it? Something about collapsing wave functions. Light as both wave and particle, and how looking at something changes its state? It was some complex material. Anyway, he thought he could work out a way around it, especially with some help from other scientists.”

This was genuinely promising, and Azrael tapped her foot thoughtfully. Since the attempt at the Apocalypse had failed, no one knew how long it would be until the New Jerusalem was opened, and it would benefit all of them if the souls were happier in the meantime. And they were right—they’d already caused so much trouble that a little more wasn’t likely to hurt.

Azrael sighed. “Perhaps a very small test could be arranged.”

 

~~***~~

 

“Okay,” Crowley said as he pulled one of the boxes of books from the Bentley’s back seat, “so now all we need to do is get a message to Above and Below, right? Tell them we’ve planted the peach pit in a super secret location they’ll never be able to find, and if one of them tries to bother us about it, we’ll tip off the other side.”

Crowley walked into their cottage, following Aziraphale as he set another box on their kitchen table. “That way I don’t have to personally pick a side. Who knows what that peach pit will grow into—I bet you it’s not going to be another Tree of Life, though—so hopefully the uncertainty will be enough to keep them out of our hair. Keeping _it_ off the board means keeping _us_ off the board.”

“It’s a lovely plan, my dear,” Aziraphale agreed as Crowley slid his box onto the table next to his own. “Thanks for helping with these.”

“Well, we’ve got to fill these bookshelves with something!” Crowley said cheerfully, gesturing to the empty bookshelves of their cottage as he trotted back outside to the Bentley.

“I wonder if I could open a bookshop here,” Aziraphale mused as he followed Crowley outside. “It sounds like the bank building is for sale now that Walter Jamieson’s officially barred from practising finance.”

“It’s a nice building,” Crowley agreed, “if you don’t mind the stench of embezzlement.”

“I’m sure we can scrub it out,” Aziraphale said breezily.

“Are you actually going to sell books at this one?” Crowley asked as he worked one of the boxes closer to him.

“Oh, heavens no,” Aziraphale said. “But I expect I’ll run out of room in the cottage soon enough, and even with the bookshop in Soho I’m running a little low on space. I wonder if some of those demons who are trying to unFall might be willing to liberate a few dozen volumes from Hell’s library for me. They looked ever so lonely down there.”

“You mean steal.”

“More like check out and conveniently neglect to return,” Aziraphale said cheerfully.

“You’re right; you were a terrible angel,” Crowley replied as he began to lift the next box. His pocket chose that moment to buzz, and Crowley set the box down again to dig his mobile out of his pocket. “Hey, it’s Kazariel.” He accepted the call.

“Hi, Kazariel.”

“Crowley,” Kazariel’s voice said in his ear. “Where are you?”

“Er,” said Crowley. “Hiding. What about you?”

“Heaven. You must be hiding _really_ well.”

Crowley stilled, giving Aziraphale a worried glance. “Why? Is Heaven looking for us?”

“Oh, no,” Kazariel said. “They’re far too busy for that. I was looking for you, though. So you’re a seraph now, huh?”

“Long story,” Crowley said. Aziraphale was giving him a questioning look, so Crowley pulled his mobile away from his ear and hit the speaker button. “Aziraphale’s here too.”

“Hi, Kazariel,” Aziraphale said. “Did you get my voicemails?”

“Oh, yeah, sorry about that. Forgot my mobile on Earth.”

“You said Heaven’s not after us, though?”

“Nope. Some over-anxious fans might try to track you down, though, so I’d be on the lookout.”

“Er…fans?”

An amused huff crackled from Crowley’s mobile. “One of the angels cast from God’s grace is Redeemed after six thousand years because he’s friends with an angel who Fell saving him—yeah, that got out, Aziraphale; you’d better watch out for fans too. And after said demon is Redeemed, he rescues that same angel from Heaven because he can’t bear to live without him, after which he breaks into Hell to rescue him _again_ , because he’d been captured by demons. And _then,_ God turns him into a seraph and he blazes a triumphant trail out of Hell, freeing thousands of damned souls in the progress—yeah, you’ve got more angels on your side than Michael does, to be honest.”

For a moment the two of them just stared at Crowley’s mobile.

“What was that about damned souls?” Crowley asked at last.

“Well, when you lit up like a star and left Hell, you destroyed a lot of infrastructure, including the main gate to where they hold the souls of the damned humans.”

“And they…escaped?” Crowley asked incredulously.

“Well, they didn’t get very far,” Kazariel’s voice said. “And at first it looked like the demons were just going to throw them back in, but then some of them started _helping_ the souls escape, would you believe it? Apparently you had some fans down there too—all of Heaven felt it when you returned to divinity, and it sounds like all of Hell did too. They saw your freeing of the souls as a, you know, _deliberate act_ , and decided to continue what you’d started. I take it from your shocked silence that that was not, in fact, your intention?”

“Er,” said Crowley. “I was just trying to rescue Aziraphale, to be honest.”

“Well, you’ve put Hell in a shambles. Congratulations.”

“I really didn’t—”

“Oh! And I was just down there earlier, and you wouldn’t believe what they’re doing now! A bunch of the demons have got it into their heads that, now that you unFell, they can too, and you’ll never guess how they think they’re going to do it.”

“Er,” said Crowley. “Repentance, community service, and meeting people?”

There was a brief pause. “Dear God, you talked to them.”

“They found me!” Crowley protested. “I didn’t know what to tell them.”

“Well, they’ve certainly taken it to heart. Oh, there are some still stuck in their ways, of course, but after Lucifer and Beelzebub issued their statement—”

“Wait, what?” Crowley broke in. “What statement?”

“You didn’t hear about that?”

“Like I said, we’ve been hiding,” Crowley said, casting Aziraphale a glance. “We weren’t sure if Heaven or Hell were keen on, you know, killing us.”

“Well, no one’s quite sure what happened, but apparently Hell is tired of being Hell. They’ve officially surrendered.”

“ _What?”_ That was Aziraphale this time, sounding absolutely stunned.

“Yeah, that’s what we all said,” Kazariel’s voice crackled from the mobile. “The archangels were convinced it was a trap, but it seems genuine so far. The human souls in Hell need to be Redeemed before they can ascend to Heaven, though, and Heaven’s not keen to let any demons into their ranks anytime soon.”

“Redeeming human souls?” Crowley said, bewildered; was all that Death had promised coming about so soon? “UnFalling demons? Is it actually working?”

“No measurable success so far, but they know it took you ages, so they’re being patient. I’ve been taking groups of angels down to talk to the demons, and a certain world-famous magician helped me smuggle a few human souls right out from under Azrael’s nose.”

Aziraphale blanched. “You’re taking human souls from Heaven? To Hell?”

“Just a few. Volunteers. Some of them are looking for friends and family they think might not have made the fifty-fifty cut. Some of them just really are saints. One of them said she knew you—Inayat was her name, I think? One of the natives to North America, I believe; she seemed to think you were a spirit.”

Aziraphale smiled. “I remember her.”

“We’re keeping an eagle eye on them, don’t worry. They’re helping the damned human souls and we’re helping the demons.”

“That’s incredible,” Crowley said. He remembered Death’s words about his actions setting off a series of chain reactions. God’s ineffable endgame, coming to a close at last.

“Big things are afoot,” Kazariel agreed. “The system is breaking down. Heaven’s being reformed as well. The individual heavens are being completely overhauled, thanks to those friends of yours, and everyone’s realising they can exercise their own free will. There’s more of an interest in exploring the Earth, too.”

“Well, that’s…I mean, that’s great,” Crowley said. He glanced over at Aziraphale. “Isn’t it?”

“Absolutely,” Kazariel agreed, and the honesty was bare in her voice. “This is what Heaven needed; this is what _everyone_ needed. A chance to actually _think_ about the system we’ve all been idle pawns in for so long, and to restructure it in a way that’s more beneficial to everybody. Heaven was broken, but it’s being made whole again.”

Crowley cast Aziraphale another glance, but he seemed pleasantly surprised at the prospect—Heaven as it should be, not Heaven as it had been. The fallen angels and souls in Hell saved at last. Maybe not peace for the souls still living their lives out on Earth, creating and trying and failing and being just generally bloody brilliant, but peace in the afterlife. Free will for each person’s narrative, but an ineffable ending when the book was done.

“It’s a new start for everybody,” Kazariel said, and Crowley could hear the smile in her voice. “And it’s all thanks to you two.”

 

~~***~~

 

It was a gorgeous day out.

So gorgeous, in fact, that Aziraphale and Crowley had decided to pull two of the chairs from the kitchen table out onto the front lawn, arranging them next to each other so they could watch the birds and the very occasional car driving past through the gap in the hedge.

They’d spent the first half of the day unpacking the last of the things they’d brought from the bookshop, Aziraphale fussily making sure his books were all organised in the proper order.

Much to his delight, the heavenly and hellish books had indeed grown civil, and to such an extent that a few of them seemed quite loath to be separated from their new friends. Aziraphale shelved them all together. _An Historical Narrative_ and _Inner Workings_ seemed particularly upset when Aziraphale temporarily set them on different shelves, and put up a very loud fuss until he reunited them. Now they were sitting snugly side by side on the end of their shelf, seeming perfectly content.

Aziraphale and Crowley had also taken the time to rearrange some of the things still at the cottage. This included Crowley immediately transferring Aziraphale’s coat and shoes from the cupboard under the stairs back to their spots by the door, as well as pushing the box of Aziraphale’s things into his hands with a guilty apology. Aziraphale went through it and pulled out the things he still wanted to use, and shoved the rest—his medical records being the most prominent—back into the cupboard. They could stay there and gather dust for eternity, as far as he was concerned.

All of that was done now, though, and they were enjoying the afternoon in the front garden. They were sitting very near to where Aziraphale had breathed his last mortal breath, but Aziraphale found it didn’t bother him very much anymore. It had been quite some time ago, after all, and there were so many other things he’d rather occupy his thoughts with.

“We really need to mow this grass,” Crowley observed. It was tall enough to brush around their ankles, and the flowerbeds behind them were similarly overgrown.

“Sounds like a task for tomorrow,” Aziraphale commented, shifting in his chair and just enjoying the warmth of the day, a perfect compliment to the warmth of Crowley’s aura beside him. A bird sang nearby, its voice unfurling effortlessly into the air.

Crowley made a noise of agreement and stretched out a little, crossing his ankles in front of him. Aziraphale had noticed that the former demon had retained a few of his snake-like tendencies since he’d shifted back, such as an increased tendency to enjoy basking in the sun, and as far as Aziraphale was concerned it was terribly endearing.

“Do you think we should plant flowers again?” Aziraphale asked after a moment, tilting his head towards his friend.

Crowley half-glanced behind them at the overgrown flower beds, as overgrown as they’d been when they’d first moved in. He turned his gaze back to Aziraphale, golden eyes questioning. “Do you want to?”

“Well, they do look a little sad right now,” Aziraphale commented.

“Not lilies,” Crowley said.

Aziraphale gave him a faint smile. “Not lilies,” he agreed, reaching over to give Crowley’s hand a pat where it was resting on the arm of his chair. “Geraniums, maybe? Or irises?”

“Your choice,” Crowley said agreeably, settling back into his chair. “I was considering growing a few houseplants again, if you think we can spare the room.”

“I’m sure we can,” Aziraphale replied easily. “The place could do with some livening up.”

Crowley hummed agreement.

For a long time the two of them just sat there, the sun beating down on them warmly, and Aziraphale thought that he would be happy if this was all they did every afternoon.

Finally, Aziraphale stood up and stretched. “Would you like some water, my dear?” he asked.

“Sure,” Crowley said, half-sitting up.

“I’ll get it,” Aziraphale assured him, and headed back inside. He filled two glasses with water from the tap and set them on the kitchen table, taking a moment to flip through that morning’s post. Aziraphale’s sword was lying nearby on the table where Crowley had set it some time earlier as they unpacked the books. Aziraphale picked it up idly, intending on moving it further out of the way, and froze.

Something was shifting in Aziraphale, and he felt a part of himself begin to fill in a way that he hadn’t felt in a very long time.

Aziraphale stared at the blade of the sword as, very slowly, flames began to creep along the polished steel.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said, but there was no response. The flames began to flare higher. Aziraphale hastily set the sword back down on the table and it went out.

Aziraphale grabbed one of the glasses of water next. He touched the swirl of power inside himself and formed it into a thought. The water turned to wine.

Hardly breathing, Aziraphale set the glass down and held out his hand, shaking. He miracled a cup of tea into it.

Aziraphale stared at it, stunned, and took a careful sip.

“Crowley,” he said again, louder.

 

~~***~~

 

Crowley twisted in his chair, looking over his shoulder as Aziraphale stumbled out of their cottage. He was holding a cup of tea and looked like he’d just had some sort of massive revelation.

Crowley blinked at him in surprise, straightening up in his chair. “Is everything all right?”

Aziraphale crossed the stretch of grass between them and came to a stop beside Crowley’s chair, looking down at him. He held out of the cup of tea wordlessly.

Crowley took it, bemused. “I thought you said you were going to get water…?”

Aziraphale smiled weakly, held out his hand, and a glass of water appeared in it. He handed it to Crowley too and cleared his throat. “I…appear to have my powers back.”

Crowley looked from the glass of water to Aziraphale and back again, astonished. Aziraphale gave him a very nervous smile, but the hope behind it was clear. He took a seat in his chair next to Crowley.

“What? Did you unFall or something?” Crowley reached out and touched Aziraphale on the shoulder. He was feeling for divinity or anything else unusual, but the only divinity he felt was his own.

“I don’t think so,” Aziraphale said, sounding bemused himself. “I didn’t feel anything.”

“Do it again,” Crowley urged, something occurring to him in a flash.

Aziraphale waved his hand and the top two inches of the overly-long grass vanished. Another brief motion of his hand dispersed the worst of the freshly-cut grass smell.

Crowley focussed on himself as Aziraphale performed the minor miracles, and felt an absolutely tiny depletion in his own powers. Aziraphale, meanwhile, was beginning to look utterly delighted with himself, and Crowley realised that the former angel had missed his powers a great deal more than he’d let on.

Crowley smiled and felt himself relax, sitting back in his chair. “Ah, that’s it.”

Aziraphale glanced over at him, looking like he could barely believe his incredible change in fortune. “What?”

“It’s mine,” Crowley said with a smile. “You’re drawing on my powers.”

Aziraphale blinked and suddenly a look of horror was drifting across his features. “ _Your_ powers?”

“It must be through the soul bind,” Crowley speculated, sitting forward again as he turned this new development over in his mind. “The connection it opened up between us. It’s a channel, remember? I sustained the spell keeping you physical by pouring power _into_ you, and now you must be drawing power _out of_ me.”

“Oh no,” Aziraphale said, expression torn between guilt and delight. “Oh, er, do you mind?”

Crowley miracled the two cups out of his hands and gave Aziraphale a genuine smile. “Not in the slightest, angel. And I’ve certainly got more than enough to go around.”

Aziraphale seemed torn between absolute elation at Crowley’s answer and a sort of worried fretfulness. “Oh, are you sure? They _are_ your powers; I wouldn’t want to—”

“Perfectly sure,” Crowley said, and leaned over. When he’d started the motion, he’d fully intended on just pulling Aziraphale into a sort of reassuring, one-armed hug, but something got mixed up along the way and instead he gave his beautiful, wonderful, _gorgeous_ angel a long-overdue kiss on the cheek.

Aziraphale went very still and gave him a shocked, oblique look.

It took Crowley a full three seconds to process what he had just done.

Crowley blanched and then felt himself flush deeply in horror. Aziraphale was still staring at him, surprise etched across every line of his face.

“S—s—sssorry,” Crowley stammered, stumbling to his feet as all the warmth of the summer’s day suddenly evaporated. He desperately cast his eyes around the front garden, looking anywhere but Aziraphale, searching for an escape route. His eyes fixed on the door to the cottage, and he took a trembling step towards it.

He didn’t make it very far before he felt Aziraphale’s hand on his elbow, pulling him back down towards him. Crowley turned reluctantly, mouth open to apologise again, cheeks burning, and that was when Aziraphale pulled him down into another kiss, a proper one this time.

Crowley’s legs went weak and he sank gratefully back into his chair. Aziraphale’s hand was on the small of his back now, pulling him closer, and Crowley reached out blindly, fingers finding Aziraphale’s jumper and latching on.

Crowley’s mind was in overdrive, had passed overdrive long ago, and was crashing off the road, all trains of thoughts derailed. Aziraphale was kissing him. _Aziraphale_. Kissing. _Him_. Kissing. _Aziraphale_. Him. _God_. And _he_ was kissing Aziraphale _back_.

The last part of Crowley’s mind that was still functioning properly thought that he could have gladly stayed like that for eons, but then Aziraphale was hesitating and pulling away. Crowley was intent on following him, right to the ends of the Earth if need be, even if it meant leaving the support of his chair, but then there was a gentle pressure on his shoulder and Aziraphale was pushing them apart.

Crowley reluctantly allowed them to be parted, opening his eyes but maintaining his grip on Aziraphale’s jumper. Aziraphale was slightly flushed, and Crowley thought that the delicate pink blush on his cheeks had never been more beautiful.

“Hold on,” Aziraphale said hoarsely, fixing his gaze somewhere around Crowley’s collar. “I—I need to know if this is really you.”

Crowley blinked at him, puzzled.

Aziraphale bit his lip, an incredibly distracting motion. “And not…” Aziraphale’s voice grew quiet, though his grip on Crowley’s shoulder tightened almost imperceptibly. “Not just the part of me that you have.”

Crowley sorted that out, perplexed. “Oh,” he said. “No.”

Aziraphale glanced up at him nervously, and Crowley could see the conflicting emotions in his brilliant blue eyes. It was clear that Aziraphale desperately wanted to believe him, but something was holding him back.

“Are you sure?” Aziraphale asked worriedly. “It could be…influencing how you feel. I don’t want—”

“It’s me,” Crowley assured him, and took the opportunity to move his hand from Aziraphale’s jumper to his neck, his thumb gently caressing Aziraphale’s cheek. It felt amazing, and he wondered why he had never done it before. There was a hint of uncertainty still in Aziraphale’s beautiful ice blue eyes, though, and Crowley wanted nothing more than to see it banished forever.

Crowley wasn’t sure where all this was coming from, but he felt absolutely certain that it had been a part of him well before they had swapped parts of their souls. This had been here for a very long time, lying just under the surface but shaping his actions all along, and Crowley knew that the only thing that had changed was his realisation of exactly what it was.

“This is not new,” Crowley said, and kissed him again, until Aziraphale believed him.


	26. Crazy Little Thing

“Well, er, good night,” Crowley said nervously, and patted Aziraphale awkwardly on the arm.

“Good night, my dear,” Aziraphale replied, and for a moment they both just stood there in the darkened upstairs hallway of their cottage, loath to be parted but each afraid to say so.

Finally, Crowley cleared his throat and the two of them awkwardly turned and shuffled off towards their respective rooms.

Crowley changed quickly and crawled under the covers, struggling to process the events of the day. His heart was still beating rapidly in his chest, and he didn’t know if there was even the slightest chance of him getting any actual rest tonight at all.

It felt like a dream. There was no way this was actually happening in reality. Him and _Aziraphale?_ _Together?_ For some reason, when he thought it aloud, it didn’t seem all that preposterous after all. What had he thought Aziraphale was to him, really, all this time?

He might have thought that this was some sort of bizarre dream or elaborate trick, or perhaps a world created by his subconscious, like Aziraphale’s heaven had been, except that he knew exactly how he had come to be here. He had not woken up one morning with this sudden emotion in his chest—it had been building itself up over time, in a thousand little words and deeds, and its conclusion now seemed inevitable.

Crowley rolled over, fighting a ridiculous smile. Now that he was thinking about it, he was very surprised it had taken him this long to realise what must have been patently obvious to everyone within a ten-mile radius. He was slowly recalling incidents with the villagers, out of place comments and significant looks, and suddenly they all made perfect sense. Of _course_ they’d thought he and Aziraphale were together.

 _Well, now they can be right about it_ , Crowley thought smugly, burrowing further into the covers. _He’s mine_. This thought brought another broad smile to his face, and Crowley wondered if it was possible to feel this happy forever. When he’d been a demon, happiness had been actively discouraged, and, though he didn’t know what Heaven’s official policy was, he didn’t care in the slightest. He was brimming with it, and never wanted to stop.

 _He’s mine_. _…Officially._

Crowley must have been more tired than he thought, because he found himself waking some time later to a flash of fear in his gut and a faint noise from somewhere outside his room. Crowley sat up groggily, arms tangling in the covers as he slowly remembered where he was.

It took him a moment to process what was happening, and then he realised what must be the matter. Crowley padded out of his room and down the short, darkened hall to Aziraphale’s door. He slipped inside the room without knocking and found Aziraphale rolled over on the far side of his bed, covers bunched around him, his back to Crowley.

Crowley crept closer, picking up another flash of fear, and knew Aziraphale must be having a nightmare. They were common enough fare for the both of them, but Crowley had never attempted to wake Aziraphale from one before. It had always seemed like something that was none of his business. A person was entitled to nothing if not privacy in what their own subconscious tortured them with.

The bed was pushed almost all the way against the far wall, so Crowley carefully crawled onto the mattress, making his way over to Aziraphale.

“Aziraphale?” Crowley whispered, putting a hand on the former angel’s shoulder. By the faint moonlight filtering through the half-closed blinds on a nearby window, he saw that Aziraphale had broken out in a light sweat, beads of moisture clinging to his forehead.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley said again, a little louder, and gently shook Aziraphale’s shoulder. “Angel.”

Crowley gave his shoulder one last shake and Aziraphale jolted awake, a hand bumping into Crowley as he started to pull himself into a half-sitting position. He gave a second start when he realised Crowley was right next to him, and he let out a quick, surprised breath.

“Crowley. You—I didn’t see you there.”

“Sorry,” Crowley said, and moved a little further away.

“No, I…” Aziraphale’s voice trailed off, and he rubbed at the back of his neck. Crowley saw his cheeks flush slightly in the moonlight. “Did I wake you? I didn’t mean to.”

“It’s okay,” Crowley said.

There was an awkward silence and Crowley started backing up further, intending on quitting the bed and leaving Aziraphale to his peace.

“You don’t—” Aziraphale stopped, and Crowley thought he saw him flush even deeper. “You can stay if you like.”

Crowley blinked at him in the moonlight and thought that that was a fabulous idea. He stayed on the bed, but couldn’t bring himself to move any closer, so he just stretched out where he was, on top of the covers.

Aziraphale settled down too, and for a long time the two of them just stayed that way, a full metre between them on the bed, a no man’s land neither of them were brave enough to cross.

Aziraphale’s proximity soon calmed Crowley, though, and he felt himself start to drift off again, the cold air in the room brushing past his cheek.

 

~~***~~

 

Aziraphale came to slowly, gradually recognising that something warm was pressed against him. He moved an arm, feeling fabric and, beneath that, something soft. Whatever it was shifted slightly and let out a contented hum.

Aziraphale blinked his eyes open, momentarily confused. Then a quick tilt of his head relayed that Crowley must have moved closer sometime in the night, because he was currently snuggled up against Aziraphale, looking utterly at peace.

He let out a long breath, and the hand Crowley had curled up on his chest fell with it. Aziraphale untangled his free hand from the covers and carded it gently through Crowley’s dark hair where the demon had tucked his head against Aziraphale’s shoulder. Aziraphale marvelled at the contact.

 _Not a dream, then._ Crowley’s hair was soft against Aziraphale’s fingers, and Crowley tried to nose closer. _Wonderful_.

As much as Aziraphale wanted to stay, he did rather have to use the loo, so after a few long minutes he began quietly extricating himself. Crowley made a displeased little noise but otherwise Aziraphale managed to free himself without too much trouble. The morning sun was slanting into the room from the half-closed blinds, casting faint stripes across Crowley’s face. For a long moment Aziraphale just stood there and admired him, thinking that he looked absolutely radiant, and it had nothing to do with his divinity.

Aziraphale leaned over, gave Crowley’s hair one last, slow pass with his hand, kissed him tenderly on the cheek, and went to get changed.

 _We’re actually together,_ Aziraphale thought to himself, giddy with the realisation. _After all this time._

 

~~***~~

 

About fifteen minutes later, Crowley began to grow cold and his hand flexed, reaching for a warmth that wasn’t there. He shifted and stretched out, feeling incredibly well-rested. He reluctantly let his eyes flicker open, surveying the unfamiliar wall opposite him. It took a moment to place himself in Aziraphale’s room.

 _Aziraphale’s room_.

Crowley sat up slowly. He saw that he was rather far from where he remembered falling asleep, safely on the far side of the bed, and blushed a little despite himself.

He crawled his way off Aziraphale’s bed and wandered out into the hallway. The smell of toast and beans was floating up the stairwell, so Crowley detoured from where he’d been intending to change in his room, padding down the stairs in his pyjamas instead.

Aziraphale, looking far too refreshed and awake for this hour of the morning, was humming to himself as he heated the beans, standing with his back to Crowley.

He must have heard Crowley walk down the stairs, though, because he looked over his shoulder as the unFallen angel stepped hesitantly into the kitchen. Aziraphale broke off his humming to give Crowley the largest smile he’d ever seen. “Good morning, my dear.”

Crowley was incredibly nervous but felt a smile break over his own face in return. Everything had gone from not feeling real at all to suddenly feeling all too real, and he wasn’t sure what to do with the warm, unbelievably bright feeling in his chest.

“Do you want some help?” Crowley asked.

Aziraphale turned back to the cooker, poking at the beans with a spoon. “I’m just finishing up; you can sit down if you like.”

Crowley spent a moment just gazing at the curve of Aziraphale’s cheek, admiring the way the light played over it, and then he forced his wobbly legs into motion. He saw that Aziraphale already had two plates sitting next to the cooker, ready to receive the beans, so Crowley fetched flatware and glasses and laid them on the table.

It should have been awkward. By all rights, it should have been the most awkward thing Crowley had ever done, but…it wasn’t. On the contrary, it was familiar and oddly reassuring. They _had_ been living together for years, after all.

The only difference was the gentle kiss Aziraphale placed on his cheek when he slid his plate in front of him.

“There’s a book sale in Cirencester today,” Aziraphale said by way of conversation as he took his seat. “I was thinking we could go if we wanted.”

The way he said _we_ sent a tingle through Crowley’s chest.

“Yeah,” he agreed, and then reflected that they really _could_ go. When they’d lived in Midfarthing before, they’d been trapped there, but Above and Below weren’t after them anymore. It sounded like the worst thing that was likely to happen was bumping into someone attempting to secure his autograph. And, even if sinister intentions were afoot, he was a seraph and Aziraphale was immortal. Which, in turn, granted Aziraphale access to the powers of a seraph and rendered Crowley functionally immortal.

They were practically untouchable.

“Let’s go,” Crowley said, in a slightly stronger voice. He knew how Aziraphale loved book sales; he saw them as crusades to rescue neglected books from the hands of unworthy owners. Rather like nicking books from the library, Crowley supposed, except guilt-free.

Crowley looked over at Aziraphale and saw him already smiling back at him, the expression perfectly suited to his face.

Crowley saw no reason in delaying, so after breakfast he herded Aziraphale out to the Bentley.

“Cirencester, you say? Shouldn’t take too long.”

“Thirty minutes,” Aziraphale estimated.

Crowley shrugged and gave Aziraphale a devious grin as he held his door open for him. “More like fifteen, with me driving.”

Aziraphale gave him a look that was probably supposed to be disapproving, but he couldn’t get quite enough severity in his expression to make it work. Before Aziraphale could switch to chastising him verbally, Crowley leaned over the Bentley’s open door and kissed him. Aziraphale melted into the touch, a hand going to Crowley’s cheek, fingertips tangling in his hair.

“Book sale,” Aziraphale mumbled after a long moment, and patted Crowley on the cheek.

Crowley pulled back and gave Aziraphale a grin before moving around the Bentley to open the driver’s door.

He dropped onto the leather seat and put a hand on the Bentley’s steering wheel. He looked over at Aziraphale, sitting in the passenger seat and gazing back at him, and thought that there was no place he’d rather be, or another person he’d rather be with, not for a million years.

“Angel,” Crowley said. “I love you.”

For a moment Aziraphale looked surprised, and then a beautiful smile broke over his face and he took Crowley’s hand. “I know, my dear.” Aziraphale wound their fingers together, and Crowley felt his heart flutter. “But thank you for saying it.”

 

~~***~~

 

Crowley was up to something.

Aziraphale knew this because he’d been terribly vague when Aziraphale had asked him where he was going that morning, and he hadn’t given away his secret even when Aziraphale had tried to kiss it out of him.

Now Harper had phoned him and asked for his help with some finishing touches on Bert and Donnie’s wedding, which was only two days away. Harper was the best man—Aziraphale and Crowley had found themselves roped into being groomsmen along with Bert’s brother—and as such Harper was in charge of planning the entire affair, including dealing with the apparently numerous times Bert had pushed the date back while staying with them in London. It was therefore entirely feasible that Harper had phoned him because he could indeed use a hand, but Aziraphale knew Harper was meticulously proactive when it came to details, and he thought it more likely to be a clever ploy by Crowley to lure him out of the cottage for most of the day.

Aziraphale decided to go along with it anyway, mostly because he thought it was probably best he go along with Crowley’s plan, but also because he wanted to make sure Harper was taking good care of his books.

It turned out Harper really did need his help, and Aziraphale soon found himself busied making boutonnières and corsages and performing a last-minute count of who had RSVP’d. Harper was holding the reception at his cafe as repayment for Bert holding Harper’s wedding reception in his pub several years ago, and was busy flitting between making preparations with his handful of cafe staff and instructing Aziraphale to carry out tasks.

By the time Aziraphale had finished making centrepieces it was pretty far into the afternoon, and Aziraphale commented that he’d better be getting back. Harper seemed to think there was nothing wrong with that, so Aziraphale walked back home, wondering mildly what exactly Crowley was planning.

Aziraphale saw what it was the moment he pushed open the door to their cottage. He felt his mouth drop open in surprise.

Crowley was leaning against the edge of the kitchen table, sunglasses perched in his hair, looking inordinately pleased with himself. And sitting all around him—stacked on the table and chairs, resting on the floor and clustered around the sofa—were piles and piles of _books_.

Aziraphale rocked to a halt just past the threshold, staring all around himself in astonishment. His gaze fell on the nearest pile, and he felt himself still in surprise as he recognised the cover. Then his eyes jumped to another pile, and another. They were _his_ books, the ones he’d lost in the fire during the failed Apocalypse. The ones he had recovered so recently in his imagined heaven and then lost yet again when they had returned to Earth.

“I had a little chat with Kazariel,” Crowley said easily, a broad smile on his face. “It turns out your heaven’s still up there even though you’re not, and I thought, well, now that I’m a seraph and all, I ought to be able to single-handedly power one of those sigils we were reading about that makes things permanently physical. And I thought you might like a head start on that new bookshop—”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said, starting forward, his eyes moving from the piles of rare, priceless books around him to the person who was worth more to him than all of them combined. “My dear, my beautiful, gorgeous, perfectly marvellous _darling_ —”

Crowley coloured slightly as Aziraphale threw his arms around him and pulled him into a hug.

“I love you,” Aziraphale told Crowley, and kissed him.

 

~~***~~

 

Golgoth was helping the human souls trapped in Hell. It was the closest thing he could find to community service.

Golgoth was not a powerful demon. He didn’t even have a proper title, and had spent the vast majority of his life being kicked around and told what to do by more powerful demons. He was the very definition of expendable. Golgoth had even come to see _himself_ as expendable.

Everyone in Hell obeyed orders. That was how Hell worked. Failure to follow orders resulted in extremely unpleasant consequences. As Tennyson would have said, the lot of a demon was not to make reply or reason why, but to do and die.

And then all that had changed.

A demon had disobeyed orders to an extent never before even contemplated. Somehow that same demon had escaped the reach of Hell’s very thorough Infernal Affairs Department and, even more impossibly, returned to grace.

If one demon could do it, the logic went, two demons could do it, and so on.

Hell, generally speaking, was not very pleasant, and most of the beings within it, both demonic and mortal alike, would not have been there if there were any other option available. Another option had suddenly become available, and Golgoth was determined to choose it.

He had resigned himself to dying in Hell on the orders of his lords, but a new opportunity had presented itself, a way to not only deliver his life back into his own hands but to return to Heaven as well. Golgoth was no prodigal son, but that didn’t mean he didn’t want to go home.

Crowley the unFallen had shown him the way, and Golgoth was determined to follow it. This was why Golgoth was currently making his way through Hell’s twisting maze of torture cells and opening all the doors.

Hell, surprisingly, wasn’t really all that creative when it came to mass torture, and they had settled for housing all of humanity’s damned in a system much like Heaven’s own, except perverted so that each soul lived in a bespoke, private hell created by their own worst fears.

The illusionary world each soul was trapped in vanished as Golgoth pulled the door to their cell open, and, one by one, the screams and sobs filling the air broke off. Golgoth was collecting souls a dozen at a time and herding them out of the winding complex of corridors back to where Crowley the unFallen had blazed a path out of Hell.

Golgoth shepherded the bewildered and crying souls in front of him as they emerged into the swath of destruction. A handful of angels were flitting around, some of them clearly standing guard while others collected the souls that were streaming towards them from all directions—there were over two hundred demons helping now, each moving down a different corridor and freeing the souls they had guarded, tormented, and tempted for millennia. There was an awful lot of work to be done.

Golgoth delivered his handful of souls onto safe ground and pointed ahead, towards where an angel and a righteous human soul were standing, the angel taking their names down in a book.

“Just that way, that’s it,” Golgoth said, adjusting his bowler hat slightly with his free hand.

Most of the souls started moving towards where he was pointing, many still with tears streaming down their cheeks. One of the group, a woman with deep lines on her face that indicated she had seen much suffering in life, turned back to Golgoth. She bowed and kissed his hand. “You have saved us, great angel,” she said. “Thank you.”

Golgoth carefully extracted his hand, jet black wings shifting uncomfortably. “That’s all right, but I’m not an angel." He had just about given up on dissuading them of the latter; an oddly large number of them seemed to think he _was_ an angel, despite his damningly black wings. “Just that way,” he said again, gesturing to the angel with the book.

She nodded and started in the direction he was indicating, tears shining on her cheeks.

Golgoth had just turned to re-enter the labyrinth when there was a colossal _bang_  and the wall of rock next to him exploded.

A wave of hot air hit him as Golgoth was slammed into the ground, wings barely avoiding injury, bowler hat swept from his head. People were shouting nearby, and he could dimly hear the sound of swords being drawn around the ringing in his ears.

“ _Fools!”_ bellowed a voice.

Golgoth forced his head up, vision swimming, and saw Asmodeus, the archdemon responsible for inflicting torture on those souls unfortunate enough to receive personal attention, striding out of a chasm in the rock, black wings flared. Word had gone around that she was the only archdemon who’d not yet fallen in line with Lucifer’s surrender.

Asmodeus cast her eyes around, and they locked on a human soul sprawled on the ground nearby, just a few metres from Golgoth. He saw with alarm that it was the woman he’d just been speaking with; she had been closest to the explosion and still seemed to be recovering from the blast.

“You're saving these _wretched things?”_ Asmodeus thundered, striding towards the soul.

Golgoth was the closest to her.  _Community service_.

Golgoth staggered to his feet and sprinted the short distance, falling across the soul of the woman and shielding her with his wings. Damnably black, but maybe they could provide some scant protection.

Asmodeus hissed and reached down, and Golgoth felt her power building above him, a thousand times stronger than his own.

Golgoth had always been expendable, but maybe he could die of his own volition instead of someone else’s. He buried his face in the shoulder of the soul he had thrown himself over and prepared to be annihilated.

“Asmodeus, stay your hand!”

The wave of power rearing up over Golgoth hesitated and the lesser demon froze, afraid to move lest Asmodeus decide to destroy him anyway.

The power faded, and Golgoth heard Asmodeus turn on her heel. “Belphegor, Astaroth, you had better have a very good reason for this.”

The two newly arrived archdemons spoke, but Golgoth was absorbed with rattling in a shaking breath. The soul under him shifted, and Golgoth carefully lifted himself off her, keeping his wings spread to shield them.

“I knew you were an angel,” she breathed.

“D—don’t mention it,” stammered Golgoth, who was still struggling to process his unlikely survival.

“—think about what you are doing, Asmodeus,” Belphegor was saying. “Do you really wish to be damned for eternity?”

“We are going home, sister,” Astaroth’s voice added. “Come with us.”

“But—Father—”

“There are things you don’t know. Come, we will explain them.”

“No,” the soul Golgoth was shielding said to him, drawing his attention back to her. “I mean…” She freed a hand and pointed at one of Golgoth’s wings.

Puzzled, he glanced over at his left wing. And froze.

Most of his wing was still the same jet black colour it had been ever since he had Fallen, but there, just on the leading edge, his first primary—the longest, sturdiest feather he had—was pure white.

Golgoth blinked, just to make sure it wasn’t a trick of his vision, but there it was—attached to his own wing, a single, perfectly white feather.

He sensed that Asmodeus was being led away by the other two archdemons, albeit reluctantly and suspiciously, and felt safe enough to sit up. He turned his head around to look at his other wing and saw that his leading primary on that wing was snow white as well.

Behind him, he heard voices stir, and he turned to see that everyone within fifty metres was staring at him. Many of them were looking out from around pieces of rubble they’d taken refuge behind, and several angels were standing only a few metres away, having apparently been en route to fend off Asmodeus before Belphegor and Astaroth’s timely appearances.

Golgoth heard “wings,” “white,” and “Redeemed” among the whispers. He carefully reached out and touched the leading edge of his own wing, unable to believe the evidence of his eyes. The primary glimmered under his touch, dazzling him with its brightness, seeming to contain rainbows in its vanes. Golgoth felt like he shouldn’t be touching it, for fear of soiling its beauty; Golgoth was not a beautiful person. But the feather remained unaffected by his touch. It was silky under his fingers, and he knew that it was his own.

One of the angels was nearing him now, and he looked up at her, surprise still written on his face.

The angel—a throne, it looked like, with long red hair—held out her hand to him.

Golgoth looked down at the soul he had rescued, and took her hand first. Then he reached up and took the hand the angel was offering him, and they pulled themselves to their feet.

As he stood, the highlight of white on his wings became even more evident, and the whispers around him grew louder and awed.

“Welcome, brother,” the red-haired angel said with a smile. “Today, you have inspired hope in thousands.”

And, behind her, for the first time in six millennia, the sound of rejoicing was heard in the Abyss.

 

~~***~~

 

Otho was happy.

Rome was flourishing under his guidance, and the bloody civil wars of Galba and Vitellius were things of the past. He had just approved the plans for a new amphitheatre that would be built in honour of the goddess Roma and the people of Rome themselves.

He was a good emperor, and all was right in the world.

Except…Otho frowned down at the tiny white feather in his fingers. He had found it the other day, fastened to one of the folds of his toga by his most valuable _fibula_. It was a beautiful feather, and he felt it held great meaning, but he couldn’t quite place what that meaning might be.

Now, as he held it, he felt faint impressions returning to him, memories that couldn’t possibly be his own, of fantastic places and objects. There had been winged figures—victories, surely, or else sirens or harpies—and a great deal of running, and so very many _people_. There was a sense of companionship tucked away into the iridescent vanes of that tiny, beautiful feather, and a sense of having achieved much and then comfortably retired.

It was a pleasant sort of feeling, but Otho had other, more important things to be getting on with, so he fastened the feather to a place of honour on his toga and moved on with his day.

 

~~***~~

 

 _My dear_ , read the short paragraph at the very end of the last of the slim black journals, the one about Eden, _if you ever read this, there is something you ought to know: I love you. Unfortunately, I cannot say that I have always loved you, because I have not always known you, but I have loved you for a very long time—centuries on the inside. A millennium or two seems more likely. It depends how you define it. But I have loved you, I do love you, and I will continue to love you so long as there is breath in my body. You are my world, Crowley. You mean more to me than Heaven, or immortality, or God Himself. I’ve died for you and would do so again. I love you, Crowley, and that’s the plain and honest truth. I love you._

The last sentence was underlined twice.

Beneath it was the word _fin_. Aziraphale had thought this was the end, in so many ways.

Crowley looked down at the slim black journal in his hands, speechless.

He very carefully closed it and stood up decisively. He moved towards the front door of the cottage and stepped out into the beautiful summer’s day. Aziraphale looked up from where he was carefully sowing iris bulbs in the flower garden.

“ _Aziraphale_ ,” Crowley said, voice chastising.

Aziraphale paused in the act of carefully digging a hole in the soft earth with a gloved hand. His eyes moved to the journal Crowley was still holding, and a blush spread across his cheeks.

“You _knew you loved me_ ,” Crowley said accusatorily, “and you didn’t _tell me?”_

Aziraphale flushed even redder and stood up, brushing bits of earth off his gloves. “Ah, I see you’ve found—”

“We could have worked this out _ages ago_ ,” Crowley said, waving the journal around. “ _Centuries_ , you said. We could have been together for _centuries_.”

Aziraphale looked slightly guilty. “I, er, didn’t actually realise it until a little after the Apocalypse,” he said, as though that might help.

“That was _twenty-five years ago_ ,” Crowley said, aghast. “You—when you were dying, you should have said—”

The smile began to fade from Aziraphale’s face. “I—there wouldn’t have been much point,” he said, not meeting Crowley’s eyes. “I was dying. I didn’t think I’d be coming back, I didn’t want to give you something else to grieve over, and I didn’t want to…scare you off.” Aziraphale looked at Crowley’s shoes, and Crowley realised with dismay what Aziraphale was saying.

He hastily crossed to his friend and put his hands on Aziraphale's shoulders, one still holding the journal. “Hey, hey, angel, it’s all right. And I wouldn’t have—I wouldn’t have left if you’d told me. Really.”

Aziraphale nodded, looking back up at Crowley. A slight smile crossed his face. “Well, I know that now.” He slapped Crowley’s shoulder lightly with his gloves. “You silly old serpent.”

Crowley smiled and gave him a hug, because he still looked a little rattled and he wanted to reassure his angel that, regardless of how blind he’d been in the past, he was very much with him in the present.

Aziraphale seemed to appreciate the gesture, and Crowley chuckled into his ear, “If only I’d bothered to finish the journal in Heaven, huh? Almost reached the end but stopped when I read the bit about the Trees.”

Aziraphale smiled and pulled back, fussily smoothing out Crowley’s scarf. “You and your bright ideas,” he admonished.

“Speaking of bright ideas,” said Crowley, who’d had one himself a few days ago and was thinking that, if it worked, it might be just the thing to cheer Aziraphale up, “I’ve got another one.”

Aziraphale narrowed his eyes. “What is it?”

“I’ll show you,” Crowley said, tugging gently on his arm. Aziraphale still seemed rather suspicious, but he allowed Crowley to lead him around the cottage to the back garden, which was screened by trees. Crowley took Aziraphale’s gloves from him and set them near the back wall of the cottage along with the journal.

“What do you have in mind?” Aziraphale asked warily.

“You’ll see,” Crowley said, carefully turning Aziraphale around so that he was looking away from the cottage, facing the line of trees.

“You’re not going to do something horrendous to the cottage, are you, my dear?” Aziraphale asked. “I quite like that cottage.”

“Nothing like that,” Crowley assured him, positioning himself in front of Aziraphale and taking his hands. “I’m not even sure this will work, but I’ve got a hunch, all right?”

“A hunch, he says,” Aziraphale muttered. “This can only end well.”

“Trust me,” Crowley said.

Aziraphale opened his mouth to say something, reconsidered, and merely nodded.

Crowley closed his eyes, focussing on the feeling of Aziraphale’s hands under his own. He reached out, feeling for Aziraphale through the channel between their souls, until he felt more of Aziraphale around him than himself. Crowley started pouring power into Aziraphale, and he felt Aziraphale’s hands twitch under his in surprise.

“Crowley, what are you—”

“Shh,” Crowley said, pooling as much power into Aziraphale as he thought he would need. And then, keeping his attention very much focussed on the part of himself he’d poured into Aziraphale, he took a deep breath and pulled one set of his wings into the physical plane.

He heard Aziraphale take a sharp breath, and Crowley blinked his eyes open.

Aziraphale was staring at him, and he looked like he was afraid to move. Behind him, half-unfurled, were two large, beautiful, glimmering white wings.

Aziraphale saw where Crowley was looking and he moved his head slightly to the side, disbelief written on his face. “You _didn’t_.”

Crowley relaxed, squeezing Aziraphale’s hands under his own. “Wings are a manifestation of the soul,” he said. “And part of your soul is a seraph.” Crowley shrugged easily, fighting a grin at the disbelieving expression on Aziraphale’s face. “It’s not like I don’t have plenty to spare.”

Still holding onto Crowley’s hands, Aziraphale risked a glance over his shoulder. He took an incredulous breath and, a moment later, one wing began to unfurl. Then the other one began to extend too, and Aziraphale looked like he was on the verge of tears.

“What do you think?” Crowley asked, grinning. “You can keep that pair if you like. I shan’t think I’ll be needing it, except maybe for emergencies.”

Aziraphale wordlessly threw his arms around Crowley, pulling him tight.

“You seemed to miss flying,” Crowley continued, patting Aziraphale’s shoulder and watching his own glimmering iridescent wings adjust their position slightly to maintain Aziraphale’s balance. “All of the perks of being an angel without actually being an angel, huh? I know you thought the gig was dreadfully boring.”

“Oh, _Crowley_ ,” Aziraphale said into his ear in a half-sob. “ _Thank you._ ”


	27. The Wedding

When Crowley had last stepped foot in the little parish church near the edge of the village, it had been empty and he had been utterly without hope. Now, it was packed and he didn’t think his future had ever been more hopeful.

In six thousand years, Crowley had attended surprisingly few weddings, most of them of members of the wealthy nobility. Their weddings had been lavish and only very rarely had love actually been a component. Attraction, maybe, lust, certainly, but not a true desire to spend the rest of their life with the person standing next to them at the altar. It was a nice change, seeing the absurdly wide smile plastered on Bert’s face as Donnie walked up the aisle to meet him.

Crowley resisted only with great difficulty the urge to take Aziraphale’s hand where he was standing next to him, lined up with Harper near the front of the church. There hadn’t been particularly strict rules for the groomsmen’s wardrobe apart from the mandatory boutonnière, so Crowley had opted for his usual suit, but with a nicer silk tie, which Aziraphale had spent an inordinate amount of time fussing over. Crowley had allowed himself to be parted from his scarf as well, though with the full understanding that its creator would be by his side all day. Aziraphale, meanwhile, had adopted a miracled black suit with a matching, particularly sharp bowtie and a white cummerbund that made him look like he’d walked off the set of an old black and white film. He’d even managed to tame his curls into something more contained. Crowley thought he looked absolutely smashing.

The service was short and sweet, Father Gilbert presiding and Bert grinning stupidly throughout the whole thing. Donnie looked perfectly lovely in a slightly dated wedding dress that had likely come from her short-lived first marriage.

After Bert had kissed the bride and made an admirable and laughter-provoking attempt to sweep her off her feet, grimacing with the effort, the groomsmen paired up with the trio of bridesmaids and paraded back down the aisle. Crowley linked arms with the extremely pregnant Mara, Harper’s wife, while Aziraphale escorted Faye Uphill, who was older even than Donnie and seemed absolutely delighted to be in a wedding.

After a great deal of nagging by Aziraphale, Crowley had reluctantly volunteered the Bentley’s services to escort the bride and groom to the reception, though he’d insisted he be the one to chauffeur them.

The drive only took five minutes, because Mendellson’s cafe really wasn’t all that far from the church, and he drove slowly enough to keep the crowd walking after them within sight.

Everyone who hadn’t attended the actual service was already waiting for them outside the cafe, because Harper had said everything was on the house.

Crowley ushered Bert and Donnie past the throng of well-wishers and into the cafe. He then walked back outside to wait for Aziraphale, exchanging words with some of the villagers who passed him.

When the main crowd arrived, Father Gilbert stepped aside to shake Crowley’s hand, and it was a mark of how magnanimous Crowley was feeling about the world that he didn’t even mind.

“I heard you were interested in keeping some houseplants,” Father Gilbert said, producing a small potted plant. “I hope you’ll accept this one. Quite a number of rather lush plants were entrusted to me some time ago, and this is a descendant of one of those. Terrified things, really.”

Crowley blinked, looking down at the pot in his hand. Where had the priest even been hiding it on his person? “I was, er, thinking about it, yeah,” he agreed, puzzled.

“You’ve done fabulously,” Father Gilbert said, patting him on the arm. “I can’t thank you enough. I couldn’t have put my hope in anyone better.”

Crowley looked down at the plant in his hands and back to the priest, utterly baffled. Was Aziraphale having him on? “Er, I’m afraid I don’t—”

“Don’t worry about it,” Father Gilbert said, giving him another pat on the arm. “Your future will be untroubled. Aziraphale’s too.” Father Gilbert smiled at him. “It is good.”

Crowley opened his mouth to try to get a straight answer out of the priest, suddenly remembering all of the reasons he was so annoying, but then Father Gilbert moved past him and Crowley’s attention was arrested by the sight of Aziraphale.

His angel was grinning at him as he approached, still wearing that ridiculously attractive cummerbund, hair beginning to rebel from its orderly constraints.

“You’ll never guess who’s here,” Aziraphale said as he reached Crowley.

“Nope,” Crowley agreed, and pulled him into a kiss before he could find out.

Aziraphale indulged him for a second before pulling back and gesturing urgently over his shoulder.

Walking towards them, ushering a small crowd of children in front of them, were none other than Adam Young and his wife Beth.

“Finally together, I see!” Adam crowed as they approached, and Crowley flushed a little when he realised they’d seen his and Aziraphale’s exchange.

Adam shook Aziraphale’s hand, and then Crowley’s, and Beth followed suit. Their children ground to a collective halt behind them, looking uncomfortable in their Sunday best.

“You’re both daft, the two of you, you know that?” Adam said, and Crowley interpreted this to be in reference to his and Aziraphale’s newfound relationship. “Six millennia, they finally figure it out…”

Crowley made a sound of protest and then decided his best bet was moving the conversation to a different topic. “What are you doing here?” he asked as he shook Beth’s hand.

“Well, the world’s changing, isn’t it?” Adam said. “Wanted to drop in and say hi. Visiting family too.”

“The world is certainly doing that,” Crowley agreed.

Adam tipped his head to the two of them and Aziraphale held his arm out, indicating that they should precede them into the cafe. Crowley made a quick detour to tuck the plant Father Gilbert had given him into the back seat of the Bentley before joining back up with Aziraphale.

It was positively packed inside the cafe, and Aziraphale took Crowley’s hand as he led him further into the space. Harper had laid out a buffet-style row of food on several tables, and a twisty queue was beginning to work its way through it. Harper had assembled a playlist consisting mostly of hits from the ’60s and ’70s, and they were filling the air now, competing with the rumble of conversation.

“Let’s find the happy couple,” Crowley said, patting his jacket pocket meaningfully. Aziraphale nodded and they began weaving their way through the space until they found Bert and Donnie in the back, standing surrounded by a throng of well-wishers and busy shaking hands.

“It was a lovely ceremony,” Aziraphale said as they neared, shaking the barman’s hand. “Thanks for everything, Bert.”

“Oh, it was nothing,” Bert said. “Just glad to have you back, really.”

“I hear you looked after him on that dreadful island,” Donnie said, taking Aziraphale’s hand and squeezing it. “Thank you; I know he wanders off and gets himself into quite a few spots of bother.”

Aziraphale gave a short laugh; Crowley reflected that being dragged to Hell could probably be considered ‘a spot of bother.’

“Thanks for picking up the phone,” Crowley said, shaking Bert’s hand and reaching into his jacket pocket with the other. He produced an envelope and handed it to Bert.

“Oh, you didn’t need to get us anything,” Bert protested.

“Just repaying a debt,” Crowley said. “It’s an airline gift card. I heard you were going to skip the honeymoon; don’t. And there’s a little extra in there for hotel expenses and such. Go on holiday somewhere nice.”

“No islands, I think,” Aziraphale qualified, a little apologetically.

Bert just looked surprised, and Donnie too.

“You really didn’t have to, dear,” Donnie said as Crowley shook her hand. “And you two are always welcome anytime for tea.”

“It was my pleasure,” Crowley assured her, and found Aziraphale’s free hand.

“Whoa, whoa, hang on,” Bert said as he saw Aziraphale begin to draw Crowley away by the hand. He gave them a shrewd look. “Are you two _finally…?_ ”

Crowley felt his cheeks warm. Apparently everyone in the village _had_ been aware of his and Aziraphale’s relationship long before Crowley himself.

“Yes,” Aziraphale said, sounding far too pleased about it.

“Ha!” Bert said, and twisted to flag someone down on his other side. “Harper! Someone find me Harper! That man owes me twenty quid!”

Crowley flushed even brighter, but Aziraphale tugged on his hand and pulled him back into the crowd.

Aziraphale navigated them to the end of the food queue, taking up a spot behind old Jack Livingstone, who owned the corner shop Aziraphale had once worked at.

“Hey, angel,” Crowley said brightly after a moment, elbowing Aziraphale and snapping his fingers. All at once, his suit shifted slightly and a pair of sunglasses appeared on his nose. He spread his hands wide. “What do you think?”

“I think it’s too dark in here to be wearing sunglasses, my dear.”

“Hang on, angel, you’ve got to appreciate it,” Crowley said, tapping the side of his shades meaningfully.

Aziraphale huffed a good-natured, long-suffering sigh and looked where Crowley was indicating. “A wing…?” he said. A stylised wing design was etched into both sides of the sunglasses.

“Wait for it,” Crowley said, turning to show Aziraphale the back of his suit jacket, which had just acquired a rather handsome set of embroidered wing outlines.

“Er, okay,” Aziraphale said, clearly puzzled.

Crowley lifted one foot next, where his stylish Balmoral Oxfords had shifted into a pair of black Adidas trainers with embroidered wings sweeping off the heel. Crowley beamed at Aziraphale.

Aziraphale gave him an overly strained smile but shook his head.

“Oh, come on, and you call yourself an angel,” Crowley huffed. “I’m a seraph, aren’t I?”

Across the room, Father Gilbert choked on an olive.

“One pair of wings to cover the eyes, another the feet, and a third on the back—I swear, you’re hopeless.”

Aziraphale chuckled and shook his head.

They reached the food shortly after that, the two of them piling their plates high. It was indeed a little dark for sunglasses, so Crowley pulled his off, folded them up, and tucked them into his collar. At the end of the table were an impressive selection of cakes, including a large tiered one that had yet to be cut. According to Aziraphale, who had gleaned the information from one of the cafe’s staff, each tier was a different flavour and marbled with specialty syrups.

“That man knows how to bake a cake,” Crowley said appreciatively, following Aziraphale’s lead and adding a generous slice of Harper’s famous cream cake to the edge of his plate.

There weren’t a great many spots left to sit down, and they ended up squeezing into a booth with Oscar the postman and his wife.

“How goes the competitive flower business?” Crowley asked as they settled in. “I was considering getting into it myself this year…”

 

~~***~~

 

“What do you think of peaches?” Father Gilbert asked in a slightly troubled tone, looking down at His peach cake. “I’ve received feedback recently that they’re not very good.”

Adam shrugged. “I like them well enough, myself.” He, to no one’s surprise, had got the apple cake.

“Hmm,” Father Gilbert said thoughtfully, taking another bite. “ _I_ like them.”

“Are you going to apologise to them?” Adam asked, jerking his head towards where Crowley and Aziraphale were sitting next to each other on the far side of the cafe, laughing at something Oscar had just said.

“I was going to,” Father Gilbert said, cutting Himself another bite of peach cake with His fork. “A long time ago, I decided I would.”

“You did demand a lot from them,” Adam said. “Both of them. Aziraphale might have volunteered, but he couldn’t possibly have known what he was getting into, and Crowley had no choice in the matter.”

“Neither of them deserved it,” Father Gilbert agreed. “But neither do the millions their actions will save deserve to languish a minute longer. And, now…do you know they think it was worth it?”

Adam made an impressed noise.

“I used to think in terms of the end justifying the means,” Father Gilbert mused, pausing to savour another bite of cake. “But if there’s something the Earth teaches a person, it’s that the process matters just as much as the result.”

Adam frowned. “What do you mean?”

“I still think the ends justified the means,” Father Gilbert said, “but I don’t think the ends are what we’re seeing now. I think the ends _were_ all six thousand years.”

Father Gilbert was looking over in Crowley and Aziraphale’s direction, and Adam traced His gaze. Crowley was leaning over and giving Aziraphale a quick kiss on the cheek; Aziraphale flushed but took Crowley’s hand under the table.

“I would apologise,” Father Gilbert said, cutting Himself another forkful of peach cake, “if I thought they would do anything other than ask me what I was apologising for.”

 

~~***~~

 

The evening waned long, and Aziraphale and Crowley were sipping on the complimentary wine as the crowd began to thin, families with children and those from out of the area heading home. With the newfound space, a few enterprising souls pulled enough tables apart to make a dance floor.

Bert and Donnie acquiesced to have the first dance, and a slow, lilting piano melody began to play over the speakers. The two of them moved closer and began to drift slowly across the dance floor.

 _“It’s a little bit funny, this feeling inside,”_ Elton John began.

There were a few whistles but otherwise the whole cafe watched in a respectful silence as the newlyweds drifted across the dance floor, seeming utterly at peace in each other’s arms.

 _“I hope you don’t mind, I hope you don’t mind,”_ Elton John sang, voice sweet, _“that I put down in words…how wonderful life is while you’re in the world.”_

Aziraphale reached back, found Crowley’s hand, and gave it a squeeze. Crowley laid his head on Aziraphale’s shoulder.

The song trailed off after another crooning chorus and a ripple of applause passed through the cafe.

Bert gave an awkward little half-bow, Donnie gave him a peck on the cheek, and the next song started up, another slow one.

Aziraphale looked back at Crowley, an invitation on his lips, and saw that Crowley was already nodding.

Aziraphale slid out of the booth and helped Crowley out after him. A handful of couples were already drifting onto the dance floor and Aziraphale took up a position among them, turning and drawing Crowley into place in front of him. Aziraphale was vaguely aware that most of the village was watching them, but he found that he didn’t care in the slightest.

It took them a moment to work out where to put their hands, and Aziraphale ended up with his right resting gently on Crowley’s waist, Crowley’s left up near his shoulder, and their other hands twined together. They were very close, noses only a few inches apart, breaths mingling.

 _“Wise men say…only fools rush in,”_ Elvis crooned, voice velvety and deep.

They began to sway back and forth very slowly, Aziraphale taking care not to accidentally step on Crowley’s feet.

 _“Shall I stay?”_ Elvis asked. _“Would it be a sin?”_

“My dear,” Aziraphale whispered to his partner, gently squeezing Crowley’s hand, “I think I know this song.”

Crowley chuckled and for a moment they swayed away from each other as Crowley looked up and met Aziraphale’s gaze. Crowley’s eyes were completely unguarded, as they were increasingly becoming these days, and there was such a depth of affection in them that Aziraphale felt his legs go a little weak.

“Of course you do,” Crowley whispered in response, a smile beginning to break over his face. He dipped his head bashfully as they swayed back together again, smile ducking out of sight.

Aziraphale smiled a little in return and led them into a slight pivot, Crowley’s fingers gently smoothing out a fold in the shoulder of Aziraphale’s jacket.

Crowley was so beautiful from this distance, the light draping itself over his cheekbones and highlighting each strand of his dark hair. There was an incredibly strong, warm feeling in Aziraphale’s chest, and he wanted nothing more than to stay like this forever.

Aziraphale turned his head down a little, trying to meet Crowley’s gaze.

“I love you,” Aziraphale told him softly, because he never wanted to miss an opportunity to say it.

They swayed a little to one side, and this time Aziraphale saw Crowley smile as he looked up and met his gaze. He squeezed Aziraphale's hand. “I love you, too.”

 _“Like a river flows, surely to the sea,”_ Elvis sang, soft and low, _“Darling, so it goes, some things are meant to be…”_

Crowley’s eyes were so beautiful, golden and shining, serpentine pupils softened in the low light. Except…Aziraphale’s gaze was drawn to Crowley’s left eye, where it looked like he had a speck of something caught. Aziraphale opened his mouth to mention it, but then Crowley’s gaze shifted slightly, the light hit it better, and Aziraphale realised what it was.

Tucked into Crowley’s left iris, encased by the beautiful gold of his eyes, was a small speck of ice blue.

 _The eyes are the windows to the soul_.

“My dear,” Aziraphale said softly. “Is there is a speck of gold in my eyes?”

Crowley looked understandably a little surprised by the question, but they continued swaying back and forth as Crowley’s eyes met his.

“Actually, yeah,” Crowley said. “What—oh.”

“There’s a bit of blue in yours,” Aziraphale said softly. Once, this was something Aziraphale would have apologised for, but he didn’t feel the need to this time. He was no longer afraid that Crowley might reject him at any opportunity. What they had now was better than an Arrangement; it was an Understanding, and that Understanding was that they belonged to each other, now and forever.

Crowley smiled at him gently. “Cool,” he said, and gave Aziraphale a light kiss.

_“For I can’t help…falling in love with you.”_

 

~~***~~

 

The music switched to modern hits after that, and when the combination of wine and an excess of embarrassing gavotting and modern “dancing” grew too much for the pair of them, they wished Bert and Donnie one last farewell and made their way from the cafe. It was nearing dusk, the sky streaked with beautiful bands of coral and pink.

The Bentley was still sitting outside, and Crowley looped around it to get in the driver’s seat.

“You’re not going to let them use it to get home?” Aziraphale asked.

Crowley gave a short laugh. “We only agreed on church-to-reception transportation. No, she’s all ours now.”

Aziraphale gave an amused chuckle and got in on the passenger side.

Crowley started the vintage car with a gesture, the engine purring smoothly to life. He glanced over at Aziraphale and knew with a deep instinctiveness that his angel was just as perfectly content as he was.

The Blaupunkt chose that moment to cough to life, and a guitar strummed a few opening riffs.

 _“This thing—called love—I just—can’t handle it,”_ Freddie Mercury sang. Crowley gave Aziraphale a sideways glance, and saw Aziraphale was doing the same to him. Neither of them leaned over to turn it off.

Crowley grinned and turned back to face the road. “I like this song,” he said, and put the Bentley in gear.

_“Crazy little thing called love.”_

Crowley and Aziraphale’s shared souls sat warmly within themselves as Crowley turned the Bentley into the sunset, and together they drove off into the shared eternity spread before them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The End! (ish)


	28. Author's Note

Update November 2018: The next fic in this series has been posted, so when you read it make sure to skip past  _In the Beginning_ (currently marked as the next in this series, though technically it belongs within this fic in terms of reading order). Or you can just [click here to read  _The Redemption of Eden_](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16550093/chapters/38773742). :D 

 

Color me impressed, you made it to the end!

Thanks so much for reading, everybody! I had an absolutely wonderful time writing this series, and I feel like I’ve been writing it for so long that it’s hard to believe I started writing _A Memory of Eden_ only a little over a year ago! I hope you can at least see some improvement in my writing over 325k, though (blimey)!

Oodles of thanks to everyone who stuck with me while I wrote this, and for everyone who decided to devote hours of their life to coming on this adventure with me (that's you, silly!). Extra oodles to sous_le_saule and lunasong365, who were kind enough to comment all along the way and who helped reassure me that this was a worthy enough pursuit to continue pouring whole swaths of my life into.

Special thanks to my lovely betas doctortreklock (whose commentary never ceases to amuse) and spinner12 (always helping put my unruly commas back in their place). Many thanks to pudupudu, who lent her time helping Britpick and helped me grow in a lot of ways, as a writer and as a person. And special thanks to Queen for providing the primary soundtrack for this series. ;)

I think this will likely be about it for this universe. A certain someone *cough cough* seems to be of the opinion that I need to write a third one, just to round it out, but I’m doing my best to resist the temptation. I love this universe to death, but I suppose I need to move on with my life eventually *sigh* (...and write the dozen _other_ fics that’ve been piling up in my head while I worked on this one!). I might do some miscellaneous art for various scenes at a later date (in which case you could find them [here](http://improbabledreams900.tumblr.com/post/159960726218/edenverse-masterpost)), or maybe write a few short companion pieces concerning the minor characters, but for the most part I think this’ll be all she wrote (quite literally, in this case).

I’ll be taking a break from writing for the next several months (much to my disappointment), because I’ll actually be studying abroad in London in fall of 2017 (much to my delight), and I have a strict no-staring-at-screens-while-in-freaking-London policy that I plan on adhering to quite stringently. _But_ , I shall doubtlessly be returning to my favorite hobby upon my return stateside, burdened with as many plot, setting, and character ideas as they’ll let me smuggle through customs. It’s gonna be grand! And if anyone from the UK / north-western Europe has any suggestions for obscure things to see or do, please let me know!

 

Now for some in-universe notes:

 

**Iranian-Armenian border**

Ah, you know that little throwaway line about Bert crossing the Armenian border illegally to reach Eden? Yeah. About that…

So it turns out that the fastest way to get from London to Tabriz, Iran is by flying Turkish Airlines. You’re required to have a layover in Istanbul on the way (and if you’re lucky that’s the only one you’ll have), which means that Aziraphale and Crowley’s nonstop flight is completely fictitious. Of course, British nationals need pre-approved visas to enter Iran, but luckily a few waves of Crowley’s hand is all that’s necessary to convince the customs officer that they’re not the illegal entrants he’s looking for.

And then there’s Bert. Poor, hapless Bert, who needs to get to Iran on a moment’s notice and can decidedly _not_ miracle his way through customs. He can’t fly directly into Iran, because they’d never let him board the plane without a visa, and even if he managed to sneak onboard, they’d detain him at the Tabriz airport. So how else could Bert get to Iran? He could fly into nearby Azerbaijan and sneak across the border, but British nationals need a visa to enter Azerbaijan too. Turkey? Same thing.

So Bert flew into the only neighboring country he could legally enter: Armenia. But of course the only decent-sized Armenian airport is in Yerevan, which is suitably far from the Iranian border. So poor Bert then had to make his way 130 miles to the border. Luckily, the border is a peaceful one, _and_ one of the very few places where an Iranian visa can be obtained on entrance. _Un_ fortunately, there are a number of countries whose citizens are exempt from this rule, and the UK is one of them. So Bert had to walk into the hills and sneak across the border.

Bert’s willing to do quite a lot to help out a friend in a spot of trouble...

 

**Mexican Black Kingsnake**

It’s my personal headcanon that Crowley’s serpentine form is similar to that of the Mexican Black Kingsnake, largely because they’re just so _pretty_. And given Crowley’s propensity for wearing black, I thought it likely he’d picked it up from somewhere.

There are some photos of real Mexican Black Kingsnakes being particularly iridescent [here](http://improbabledreams900.tumblr.com/post/145577622648/hereiamthebluejay-a-post-shed-crowley-looking), and a bit of fanart I did of Crowley as one [here](http://improbabledreams900.tumblr.com/post/146175949293/crowley-as-a-mexican-black-kingsnake).

 

**Snake Research**

All of the information regarding Crowley’s slithery adventures is accurate to the extent of my knowledge. I spent several hours sitting in my university’s veterinary medicine library reading books on reptile handling and small animal critical care medicine (hehehe). Ah, the library. What a fantastic place to spend long summer days.

I also consulted the great interwebs, which was handy for firsthand accounts from people who deal with reptiles on a regular basis, though there were a number of discouraging websites and YouTube videos made by people who clearly have no respect whatsoever for reptiles, nor any legitimate desire to try to understand them. Which is why 90% of the information I use in this fic is backed up by material from physically published sources.

A notable exception is the YouTube channel [HLH Reptiles](https://www.youtube.com/user/HLHReptiles), which is a truly wonderful resource. The videos are made by someone who cares for a great deal of snakes and also plainly _cares_ a great deal. He is clearly very knowledgeable and experienced, and shows a respect for his animals that is refreshingly professional. 10/10 would recommend.

It’s also been an interesting journey for me personally, going from the ingrained fear of creepy-crawlies to the point where I think I might be able to hold a snake (so long as it was friendly) without freaking out and lunging for the shovel. Arming myself with knowledge has really helped in that regard; I guess we really are just afraid of the unknown.

I learned quite a few interesting facts, too. Snakes really do “see” primarily through their sense of smell (they have no true sense of taste, though I did use the word interchangeably with “smell” for the purposes of this fic, since Crowley probably perceives them as separate even though the distinction is subtle at best). They can also “see” heat due to pit organs in their heads, and some vipers can detect changes in heat of up to _2/100th_ of a degree. So when you see a snake and you freeze and your heart rate picks up, causing your body temperature to raise by a fraction of a degree, the snake really can _smell your fear._ That was something you wanted to know, right?

Here’s another fact you didn’t want to know: snakes are very strong. _Terrifyingly_ so. I found an account from a snake enthusiast who’d once seen a ball python lift the lid off an aquarium—and the cinder block on top of it.

In the wild, snakes can go months without eating, so Crowley honestly probably would have been fine for a while longer, but plot had its demands, and he’s a decent-sized snake, right? Needs feeding up. ;)

More fitting is the fact that it’s notoriously difficult to tell if a snake is dead or not. In the case of a pet snake being euthanized :(, the presiding vet is encouraged to use two or three times the necessary dose to ensure that the process is fully completed. Because snakes are cold-blooded and can go quite long stretches of time without a heartbeat or breath, they can easily appear dead only to wake up hours after their supposed death and go slithering off!

 

**Name Meanings**

About half of the names of the angels and demons I use are fictitious, and about half are legitimate names. That is thanks entirely to this terrific book I own, _A Dictionary of Angels, Including the Fallen Angels_ by Gustav Davdison, which has thousands of entries and a searchable (but limited text) [version available on Google Books](https://books.google.com/books?id=kGXelGEMdWgC&printsec=frontcover#v=onepage&q&f=false). It’s finds like _this_ that are why I spend so much time wandering around used book stores!

Some of the legitimate names have appropriate translations / associated information for the character. In _In the Beginning_ , I reveal Crowley’s original angelic name as Phanuel, who is the angel of hope and penance—he is, quite literally, the hope of God. Phanuel is also known as the one who “holds the devil in his power.” Rather fitting, huh?

Gedariah, the dominion who takes Crowley to meet the archangels, is “a supervising chief...of the 3rd Heaven,” which is his exact role in my little fiction.

The demon who wants to kill Aziraphale when he gives himself up I named Malik, after a fallen angel who guards Hell and tells the wicked that they must remain in Hell forever because “they abhorred the truth when the truth was brought to them.” Doesn’t sound like someone willing to switch sides and try to unFall, does it?

The exact list of the seven archangels varies from source to source, though Michael, Gabriel, Raphael, and Uriel are fairly standard fare. Azrael is the Arabic angel of death (hence guarding the deceased), Jophiel is “a prince of the Law” and is sometimes noted as the angel who guards Eden (hence guarding Heaven), and Jerahmiel is a slight variant on Jeremiel, who is “the mercy of God” and “the lord of souls awaiting resurrection” (hence looking after Earth, which is full of humans still living out their mortal lives).

Ishtyr and Venus have a lot of mythology packed into their names. Ishtyr isn’t the name of an angel, fallen or otherwise, and is instead a variation on the ancient Mesopotamian goddess Ishtar, who was the goddess of love, sex, war, and political power, among other things. According to the Babylonians, she was the “divine personification of the planet Venus.” One of her most famous legends details her descent into the underworld. It’s hardly surprising that two Venuses would be friends, then! And Venus proper is, of course, a play on the planet’s identification as the “morning star,” which literally translates into the Latin as “Lucifer” (which was, in fact, synonymous with the _planet_ Venus until its association with the Christian devil). Ta-da!

Golgoth is one of my fictitious names, and is (as you probably guessed) a variation on Golgotha, the “place of the skull” where Christ was crucified.

The names Aziraphale suggests when Crowley is considering changing his are my best approximation of the spoken Hebrew words (eg. “Crowliel” is “Crowl” + “iel”, and “Crowl” in Hebrew is either כרול or כרוֹל, which I then stuck into our ever-trusty Google Translate to determine the definition as “roll,” “carol,” or “chromium.”).

 

**Enochian Spells**

All of the spells used in this fic are what I call Google-and-Russian-Translate-English-Phonetic-By-Ear-Bastardizations of Hebrew. Basically, I wrote out what I wanted the spell to be in English, popped it into Google Translate to get an approximate Hebrew equivalent, and then took that over to the Russian off-brand Google Translate ([Yandex](https://translate.yandex.com/)), which has a Hebrew speech option. I then listened to my probably-incorrect Hebrew translation and, with my woefully ignorant English ears, attempted to translate what I heard into English phonetics. As you can imagine, this went less than spectacularly, particularly since a) there were quite a few sounds that English doesn’t really have letters or letter combinations for, and b) there was no way to isolate individual words without changing the translation, so I had to guess where the word breaks ought to go.

So there you have it, “Enochian” is now an extremely butchered version of Hebrew, which probably sounds like utter balderdash to absolutely anyone who reads it. ~magic~

 

**Easter Animal Hospital**

The veterinary hospital Aziraphale rushes Crowley to is based on the Clerkenwell Animal Hospital in London, and the sat nav’s directions to it are correct except for the very last street name. Why? Well, you’ll have to work that out yourself, but it has to do with a certain medieval witch…

 

**The Bentley’s Storage**

When Crowley is at last reunited with his prized car, he retrieves it from a place I first describe as “a secure storage locker, the type millionaires put their spare sports cars into for nine months of the year.” That place is London’s very own Car Vault, which is an actual company with an actual underground car lot in Shoreditch. They specialize in long-term storing and care of vintage and luxury vehicles. Go check out [their website](http://www.carvaultlondon.co.uk/). Seriously. They put cars in [plastic bubbles](http://www.carvaultlondon.co.uk/wp-content/uploads/2013/05/slide4.jpg).

God, I do too much research.

 

**Crowley’s Shoes**

Okay, you have to see those Adidas trainers Crowley miracles on after the wedding, for his three-winged seraph joke:

 

Classy.

 

**Strike at Your Head**

I had a bit of fun playing out Genesis 3:15, whereupon God curses the Serpent, saying that the offspring of Man “shall strike your head, and you shall strike his heel.” In this case it’s demons fulfilling the promise, as Crowley bites the heel of the demon about to run Aziraphale through and then one of the demons in Hell tries to decapitate him. :o

 

**What Do You Think of Peaches?**

Yes, I did tell you exactly where Father Gilbert “got his feedback” that peaches weren’t very good. No, I’m not going to ruin the surprise. :P

 

**Beautiful**

Here’s a very important pie chart of every time I use the word “beautiful” in the fic. *whistles innocently*

Person speaking/thinking: Object of their affection

Graph on [tumblr](http://improbabledreams900.tumblr.com/post/163635617813/this-graph-is-important-back-to-masterpost).

 

**Heavenly Arithmetic**

“So the power wielded by seven archangels and a seraph literally outnumbers that of _every other angel in Heaven combined_ , other seraphim excluded,” Aziraphale said. “Using minor sigils would be a drop in the ocean. We might even need more space than the Earth even has just to write them all down.”

 _But_ , said I, is that really the case? And then I just had to know. To work out how much angelic power is available in Heaven (knowing that the power of an angel in a given choir increases sevenfold with the choir), you need to first know the number of angels in Heaven, and how many in each choir.

Scholarly estimates on the number of angels in Heaven varies, usually with a third Falling (this percentage is drawn from a line in Revelation). One source puts the number of forces at Lucifer’s disposal at 2,400 legions. But all of these numbers are pretty arbitrary, so I decided to base my Heavenly calculations on numbers I understood better: the Fibonacci sequence (this is what I’m alluding to in _In the Beginning_ when I mention flowers and snails). I assigned one number from the Fibonacci sequence to each choir of angels (counting from the highest choirs to the lowest, and skipping the eighth, which only had 14 angels originally). From these numbers, I concluded that Heaven originally had 483 angels, 259 of which (roughly one half in number, almost exactly one half in combined power) Fell. Fewer than 500 seems like a rather small number of angels, but God did have to take the time to make them all by hand—and, I mean, how many principalities can you make before you just get really _bored?_

And, a bit of math later (you can check my work [here](http://improbabledreams900.tumblr.com/post/163635626218/so-the-power-wielded-by-seven-archangels-and-a)), I found that there are, in fact, _not_ enough angels in all of Heaven (or Heaven _and_ Hell, even) to break the sigil around the Tree of Life (unless other seraphim decided to pitch in). This is because the power a given angel wields increases by powers of seven as the choirs increase, and the Fibonacci sequence, working down the choirs, increases at a slower rate than that.

The second question I then asked myself was whether it would be possible to overcome the sigil around the Tree of Life using minor sigils, at Bert first posited. I assumed each minor sigil was a perfect circle a mere 10 inches in diameter and could draw the power equivalent of an angel of the lowest choir. Assuming no overlap, I determined that, if you laid said sigils next to each other in a grid pattern, you would need 11,529,603 of them, which would take up about .73 square kilometers, or roughly the size of Battersea Park. Or you could just save a file on a flashdrive, copy it a bunch of times, and try saying the spell to that.

 

**Sigils**

Because I’m a nerd and care too much, I did go through and work out how exactly sigils work, and then [drew the one around the Tree of Life](http://improbabledreams900.tumblr.com/post/163052838168/the-sigil-around-the-tree-of-life-click-through) for funsies.

 

**The Ineffable Plan and Venus & Ishtyr**

I know it’s a little _deus ex machina_ to have the hidden hand of God at work this whole time, what with the ineffable plan and all, but I hope I made clear that God actually did very little. He meddled with some things in the beginning, and turned the universe in the direction of a happy ending, but Aziraphale, Crowley, and all the others were the ones who actually steered the boat. Indeed, very little would change in this entire series had God, say, tripped down the stairs in 4003 BC and never got back up again.

But as I was wrapping up how I wanted the series to end, I bumped into the ever-present problem of A Proper Happy Ending. The entire reason I wrote _Inheritance of Eden_ was because _A Memory of Eden_ had a rather lackluster ending. Sure, Crowley and Aziraphale were together again, but it was pretty apparent to me that the situation could only remain happy for so long. Putting aside the fact that both of them were still recovering from trauma, and being together again did not magically fix that, one of Crowley’s main flaws is that he loves the Earth too much. And how could Aziraphale’s dour heaven possibly compare to all the Earth has to offer? They could have made do, certainly, but neither would have been completely happy, and Aziraphale would have always blamed himself for that. So I wrote _Inheritance of_ , and brought them to a more satisfying conclusion.

But Aziraphale and Crowley are not the only characters in our tale. Heaven tortured Crowley and somewhat entraps the human souls in its care, and Hell is...well... _Hell_. I was already en route to fix Heaven, what with Kazariel as the proverbial spanner in the works and Ludwig  & Co. causing a ruckus looking for their friends and family. And then it just seemed like Hell was getting left out. This was especially troubling since _Good Omens_ canon establishes that Hell has “all the best people”—Mozart, Brahms, et al. Was I really supposed to just leave all of them trapped down there? That didn’t seem very sporting of me.

The second incentive for the ineffable plan came from the fact that I wanted Crowley to be the seventh seraph. When I first laid out the hierarchy of angels and assigned a certain amount of heavenly power to each, I knew that I was concentrating a large amount of that power in the hands of the few angels in the very top choirs. Which meant, in turn, that Heaven and Hell had to be very evenly matched in terms of power, or else the stalemate wouldn’t have continued for six millennia. So I divided three seraphim onto each side, and had one left over. I don’t quite remember how I worked out that Crowley ought to be that seraph, but it tied into how I was working out the end of _Inheritance of_ —with three sets of wings, Crowley could easily give one to Aziraphale, and that much power would render them fairly safe from otherworldly meddling.

But why would Crowley *magically* be a seraph? Clearly the only person who could do such a thing was God, but what would be His motive? As I worked through whether I wanted to go through the trouble of saving Hell as well (I wanted to, but was worried it might divert too much from the main narrative), it all suddenly clicked as to how I could do it. I decided to save Hell after all, but I thought it might be a little _too much_ of a coincidence for the reader to accept that everything _accidentally_ worked out perfectly for Aziraphale & Crowley, Heaven, _and_ Hell simultaneously, so I decided that there had to be a single force behind all three—a divine, ineffable plan.

The inclusion of the Venus/Lucifer and Ishtyr/Death plotline was very late, and initially it wasn’t meant to exist at all. I had been planning on rescuing some of Hell’s inhabitants by Crowley’s destructive exit of Hell, but here was a chance to _save_ Hell itself. And this backstory explained the mystery of Death’s origins and soon wove itself into the ineffable plan I was concocting. And _here_ , at last, was the motive for making Crowley a seraph and then hiding him as a lowly throne. It also explained why _Crowley_ had been chosen for that honor, of all of the angels. It was the original long shot, the hope of a Father that His wayward sons might yet be saved.

And that, I thought, was a good story in and of itself.

 

 

Further miscellaneous diagrams and art can be found at my Eden!verse masterpost [here](http://improbabledreams900.tumblr.com/post/159960726218/edenverse-masterpost).

If there were any parts, characters, plot points, etc. that you particularly liked, I’d love to hear about them in the comments; it gives me an idea of what you guys like to read so I can better deliver in the future. :)

Thanks again for reading, everyone! <3

  

**And remember, skip past  _In the Beginning_ to read  _T[he Redemption of Eden](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16550093/chapters/38773742)_!**

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * ['Twas There That We Parted](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15447729) by [DoctorTrekLock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoctorTrekLock/pseuds/DoctorTrekLock)




End file.
